


The Bone Fiddle

by htebazytook, Vulgarweed



Series: The Bone Fiddle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Appalachia, Drama, Folklore, Historical - 1970s, Humor, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Murder Mystery, Old-Time Music, Romance, Smut, Vietnam War, Watergate, West Virginia, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Appalachian AU! In November 1973, Vietnam vet John Watson returns to his family's old home in Arthel County, West Virginia, deep in coal country. His low expectations include recuperation and boredom. Instead he finds a ruined landscape, a series of grisly murders, and one of the world's weirdest neighbors.</p><p>Warnings/content: Some violence. Explicit sex. Tobacco-chewing. (Not all at the same time.)</p><p>Huge thanks to beta reader bethbethbeth</p><p> <a href="http://sherlockbbcficrecs.tumblr.com/post/98736794821/winners-of-the-2014-holmsies-announced">Best Original AU Winner of the 2014 Holmsies!</a></p><p> <a href="http://vulgarweed.livejournal.com/364388.html">The Bone Fiddle Fanmix!</a> Music is the heart and the spine of this story, so here is over two hours of it. Traditional Appalachian music, period-appropriate rock, and atmospheric alt-country. All the murder ballads mentioned in the story are here.</p><p>Beautiful <a href="http://songofthecuckoo.tumblr.com/post/46558984861/for-the-amazing-sherlock-au-the-bone-fiddle-by">cover art</a> by <a href="http://songofthecuckoo.tumblr.com/">songofthecuckoo</a>. </p><p>Beautiful cover art by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/11727516">bluebellofbakerstreet</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take Me Home, Country Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Vulgarweed: This was the result of a challenge to take a canon set in a region you're not from, and set it in a region you are from. I'd like to acknowledge the influence of Sharyn McCrumb and Vicki Lane. There's an homage to _The Silence of the Lambs_ in one scene, and a direct paraphrase from _A Study in Scarlet_ in the prologue. Arthel County is fictional (located in the vicinity of the real counties Raleigh, Wyoming, and Mercer) and it's named after the great North Carolina guitarist Arthel Lane “Doc” Watson, who just passed away last spring at age 89. Mountain music plays a huge role in this story, and I couldn't resist the meta: “According to Watson on his three-CD biographical recording Legacy, he got the nickname "Doc" during a live radio broadcast when the announcer remarked that his given name Arthel was odd and he needed an easy nickname. A fan in the crowd shouted "Call him Doc!" presumably in reference to the literary character Sherlock Holmes's sidekick Doctor Watson. The name stuck ever since." (Wikipedia)
> 
>  
> 
> Htebazytook: Of course I jumped at the chance to collaborate with one of my fandom heroes, and in my shiny new fandom, to boot! Suffice it to say I learned more about music, moonshine, and mining than anticipated.

**Prologue (with apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the first paragraph . . . well, for the whole thing really)**

_In the eastern part of the great North American continent, there lies a dense and rugged chain of mountains, which for many years served as a barrier against the advance of the westward landgrab. From western Pennsylvania to northern Georgia, from western Virginia to central Tennessee, from the Allegheny to the Kanawha to the Chattahoochie, is a region of ceaseless hills and ridges and perpetually shaded valleys._

_The Appalachian mountain range is one of the oldest in the world. It was once higher than the Himalayas are now; only millions of years of erosion have brought it down to its current modest height. Before the current era of our point in continental drift, it was one with the Black Mountains of Wales and the Scottish Highlands. Politically speaking, the United States is a former British colony – but if one takes a very long view, the British Isles are stray bits of detritus from the mega-continent that once shared the same hills._

_In North America, the Appalachian Mountains are dark and bloody ground._

 

**Arthel County, West Virginia, November 1973:**

Dusk came on early in the hills at this time of year. Up at the top of the valley, the edge of the stern, unbroken ridge, with its trees mostly bare and looking from a distance like bristly hairs on the back of a boar, swallowed up the pale sun in no time. So the Logan brothers, Mikey and Donnie Ray, and their friend Bill Harwood, straggled along through the dense woods and out into the brown meadow as quickly as they could with their field-dressed prey bobbing along behind them on a crude deer sled. The young buck wasn't done bleeding out, and left a trail of blood. There was also a leak in the canvas bag that Bill used to carry the heart and the liver.

The shadows were long, and starting to fade completely, back in the reaches of the cool grey woods. It was still a ways off to the deer blind and their crude campsite. But at least the weather was cold enough that the bit of ice they'd brought should hold out. The ice was for the beer – the deer would be fine in the cold creek overnight.

Mikey, the youngest, nearly jumped out of his skin when the chorus of whip-poor-wills started. Sign of death, that was the death-messenger's call. Never mind that they trilled their repetitive piping all night every night, so if that old saying was true, there'd have been nobody left alive for years. Still. They were summer birds. It was out of season. Donnie Ray laughed, "Still scared of the dark?"

Mikey flipped him off, with a hand still caked in deer's blood. The rifle slung over his shoulder bumped against his hip and he couldn't help but glance around him, into the deepening sky. A gunshot echoed in the distance, bouncing off the cliff edges overhead. "Reckon those guys could hit anything in this light?"

Bill shrugged. "Maybe they ain't huntin' deer."

"Shit, don't say that."

Donnie Ray laughed harshly. "My little brother's been jumpy lately. They been reportin' on those murders too much and he just eats it up. He thinks he's gonna be next."

Bill pulled a little bit harder on the ropes of the drag as the chill grew around them and the twilight deepened. "Thought it's all been girls so far."

"Latest one was a boy," Mikey said defensively. "All tore up. On the radio they said they think it was a horse and a truck 'at ripped him apart. Found an arm at one end of the field and a leg at the other."

"Lord have mercy."

"He's out here somewhere. Cain't be too far away. You know there's crazy people out here. Could be anyone."

"Well no," said Bill, trying to be a voice of reason. "Couldn't be just anyone, 'cause everyone ain't crazy as a shithouse rat."

"Well, some people are."

The sounds of brown leaves crunching underfoot let them know they were close to their camp, which they'd set up near an old hunting blind left over from last year as a helpful landmark, though the rotted canvas wasn't much use anymore. Behind it, the creek burbled and splashed, scraping against the frosty mud at its banks. Bill decided at last he was going to have to break out the flashlight to find the camping lantern, and he was looking forward to that cold can of beer with his name on it. When they got the fire lit, they'd see about some supper. He happened to swing the beam of light up to the edge of the blind and the hickory tree it rested on – and that was a mistake.

Hung in the lowest branches was a bizarre contraption made of bone. Bill felt a dizziness in his head as he came up to it, the Logan brothers surrounding him and starting to murmur, because there was no way in _hell_ that thing had been there when they set up camp that morning. And that dizziness got worse and started to make a roaring sound in his ears, because he was a farmer and a hunter and he'd seen a lot of different kinds of bones in his 26 years, and these weren't deer or pig or cow or turkey, but he thought he was starting to figure out what they were.

There was a breastbone. And a slender armbone attached to it. And there was hair strung across it, stretched taut as a bowstring. And there was a long, slim bone in the branches beside it, strung with fine golden hair that caught the flashlight and glistened. Wasn't horsehair.

"Oh sweet Jesus lord," muttered Mikey, efficiently cursing and praying at once.

"We're not campin' here tonight," said Donnie Ray. "I don't care how far the truck is. I don't care how dark it is. We're gettin' _out_."

Bill couldn't disagree with that. He had to step a little bit closer just to get a better look at the thing though, and then it hit him just what it was supposed to be.

Some sick fuck had taken some human bones and a girl's long hair, and built a fucking _fiddle_.

They packed up the deer as best they could in the cold creek and the ice, but all of them knew there wasn't much chance they'd be coming back here soon if they could help it.

Still, Bill found his eyes drawn to the thing and kept looking behind him. It had a horrible sort of appeal. There were musicians in his family, not too far distant. Maybe somebody'd want it.

 _No,_ he thought. _No, I oughta call the sheriff and report it._ He probably would've done it, too, if not for the matter of that speeding ticket from July he still hadn't paid.

*******

**Chapter 1 - Take Me Home, Country Roads**

The old Ford pickup truck made a rattling noise as it hauled itself up the steep grade to the little driveway. It was rusty and drab, but it was solid, and well worth the price of it in the classified ad in the paper. It had already gotten Dr. John Watson a lot further than he'd meant to go. 

If John had been in any physical condition for it, he'd have kissed the ground when he'd touched down in the States again. But the ground wasn't kissing him back. And now, driving wasn't fun, with the leg being what it was. When he'd first emerged from Walter Reed and gotten himself a vehicle again, he'd driven six hours out of DC – only to wait four more hours in a gas-station line right outside of Roanoke, still with long miles to go on roads that would only get narrower and steeper and rougher.

This was what he'd come down to, then – an old family home ruined by strip-mining. His useless drunk of a brother hadn't even told him until it was too late to do anything about it, and John found himself staring up at a ruined ravaged hillside shaken by dynamite and choked by dust. Shit, the _mountain_ was barely there anymore. It was like a giant open festering wound, the torn-up treeless ground, the naked, gouged rock being explosively stripped of its deep black seams of coal, and the stagnant pool that had turned colors that no water should ever be. Not so much as a standing burned chimney where the old house had been. One blast of those noises of trucks and backhoes and bulldozers and the roar of explosives was enough to tell John this was no place for a beat-up and prematurely-old veteran who still smelled napalm and burning jungle in his nose every night.

So it was the old family afterthought, then, that couple of acres near Stanger, that they'd never done much with. John thought maybe he'd seen it once – hell, he barely even remembered his old grandparents' place before his father had moved them over to Charleston back in the late 40s. When John did remember that old house, though, it was nice. This benighted patch of high grass and weedy trees, though, with the tiny drafty trailer?

Well, it was alright that it was small. John didn't have much, and he didn't need much, and as long as it didn't have those malarial Mekong mosquitoes, he'd cope. At least at this time of year, all the spiders in the outhouse should be dead; he'd had an incident with some eight-legged monsters at Âmurừng that almost did the Viet Cong's work for them.

So what if the tiny television didn't get any reception to speak of . . . and it had taken a week to get a telephone and it was all party-line . . . and hot water was scarce to come by . . . and the rusty propane tank just outside probably wouldn't make it through a good hard storm? He wasn't being shot at, and he wasn't spending his days alternating between way too much boredom and way too much excitement, which had all too often ended with John hands-deep in a torn bloody mess that had been a good man once – and which despite his best efforts and his medical training honed to second-nature, wasn't ever going to be one again.

Then he'd had his own turn being the bloody mess that someone else was tasked with saving. 

*******

There was already a wintry wind beginning to rise along the dark tops of the ridge.

John settled down into the narrow steel bed, burrowing into the wool Army blanket and the one homey touch, a second-hand quilt from the Goodwill store.

There wasn't much on the radio. Staticky weather report, chance of snow or sleet in the higher elevations. Country gospel – "When the Stars Begin to Fall." The little yellow lamp cast just enough light on the pages of the novel he wasn't absorbing. John shut off the radio and the lamp and let himself drift. He embraced a pillow and tried to abandon all thought into the sound of the wind whistling along the window caulking. 

It might have been seconds later or hours, but noise tore the quiet darkness apart. What sounded like a slow-motion explosion. Gunshots – might have been a quarter mile away, might have been just in his head. And worst of all, a sort of roaring growl that ended in a high ragged shriek like a panther on the prowl or a human in terror.

John woke up in a cold sweat, which was just ridiculous to think about actually happening, but here he was in an unfamiliar, chilly room staring at black and blue shadows with his heart racing. It was better than waking up in the middle of a crossfire in the jungle, but that didn't mean it was any fun either. In fact it was kind of worse because it was supposed to be better.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath now. It was the kind of silence that fell after a real noise in the world, not a phantom one in a dream.

_Fuck._

The little clock said two-fifteen. 

When he woke up the next time it _was_ to a gunshot. He pushed down an icy instinctual fear and reminded himself it was well into buck season, and he'd better get used to it. He couldn't so much remember his dream as the all around sense of dread that carried over from it. 

The alternative could've been worse, though, and he should count his blessings.

He gave up on sleep, got up and put a sweater over his pajamas and shuffled carefully to the window before fumbling around in the trailer's too unlived-in living space. He bumped into corners and tripped over cleaning supplies he wasn't even sure what to do with in the pre-dawn dimness, breaking the silence as violently as the gunshot had.

It was a dark night, a thick cloak of overcast hiding stars and moon, and a descending fog obscuring any remaining light. There was a cold wet smell in the air underneath the ubiquitous woodsmoke of autumn and winter. That scent carried far; there weren't any other houses visible from John's little yard, but he knew there were others nearby he'd been meaning to explore.

Old ground-in instincts were telling him he ought to investigate. What if someone needed help? What if someone was hurt? It's what doctors _do_. Other instincts were arguing with that one, pointing out that he had no backup, and he'd just arrived and should be cautious on unfamiliar terrain, possible hostile reaction to meddling, and had he really heard anything at all or was it all in his crazy bombed-out head? Maybe the noise was really happening on the other side of the world and he'd just brought it back with him. And what real use could he be to anyone in crisis _now?_

Nonetheless, he had his pistol out of its drawer and tucked into his jeans, just in case.

He peered out into the darkness, tried to glimpse a gaggle of hunters emerging from the woods to break up the monotony of the desaturated landscape, but there was nothing. It was so silent out there. It actually _looked_ silent – and it was seeping inside like a physical force, without so much as a hint of icy wind to clack bare branches together. 

John sighed to himself, said, "Well," to nobody, and set about organizing the place as best he could without bothering to turn on the single, inefficient light over the stove.

There wasn't much for him _to_ do but unpack, and there wasn't much to unpack, either, so he spent the next few hours organizing what little did need unpacking while the sun rose cautiously in the background. He paused in his work to watch its beams struggle to penetrate the early morning fog, stood there with his mind blank until a solid little epiphany settled somewhere in his chest: John didn't know this area well enough, didn't know how the sun rose or how far the nearest, well _anything_ was, but instead of feeling giddily free, out here alone with so much empty land around him he, felt suffocated by the not knowing.

After his plain, boring possessions were put onto their plain, boring shelves and countertops he rummaged around in the fridge. Of course it was essentially empty, so he ended up eating plain, boring food, too. 

The alternative could've been worse. Most people probably enjoyed having simple lives. They wanted them.

He sat down at his table and surveyed his work. The trailer still looked sparse, and the morning light did nothing to warm it up. There was just the table, a few hard wooden chairs, and one rocking chair by the window in the way of furnishings, and John was wondering if it might be a good day to go back to the Goodwill store. 

John munched on generic Cheerios without milk and looked outside into the silence again. Even if he could get reception on the television he probably wouldn't want to watch what was on it. 

He sipped his coffee slowly and leafed through yesterday's paper from Beckley. Cold weather coming. War was still on. Oil crisis still on. Local boy killed in a wreck on the highway near Bluefield. Mining accident in Raleigh County. Strike down in Kentucky, turning deadly.

He wondered if today's news was going to show any improvement.

He looked outside again, sick of the unchanging view already. The supposedly two lane road he'd conquered on the way up here was more rocks and gravel than your standard dirt road, and it probably dwindled down into nothing in the middle of a field farther up the hill. It was one of those gradual, sort of lumpy hills that couldn't make up its mind about whether to give up on its lofty aspirations and just flatten out.

John heard the crunch of gravel for a good five minutes before a car melted into view out of the still lingering fog. There was just enough light reflecting off the fog to let John see the lights and insignia of the county sheriff's car moving as best it could up the grade. So either the road wasn't a dead end or the sheriff just lived up there – John couldn't quite fathom anything happening in this county more sinister than listening to Black Sabbath.

 _Well, he'll take care of it,_ John thought, feeling mostly relief and a slight, odd pang of something resembling disappointment.

_Oh well. Time to resort to the old home remedies for cold nights and bad dreams: a bit of bourbon, hot water, lemon. No honey in the cabinet, shit, can't remember everything at the store._

_Johnny boy, you're gonna go nuts if you can't find some way to be useful._

He was interrupted from nothing by a distant silhouetted figure making its way up the road. He stared at it for way too long before realizing he probably shouldn’t give his neighbors the impression he was a psycho right off the bat, backed away from the window and sat on his threadbare couch instead.

Suddenly there came a tapping at his trailer door.

John's leg twinged when he got back up to answer it, which was annoying because it only bothered him whenever he'd just managed to forget about the pain.

When he opened the door he saw a friendly-faced woman probably in her sixties standing there, juggling two foil-covered pans. "Oh gosh, ma'am, let me help you," he said, reaching instinctively for the plates

"I just wanted to welcome a new neighbor," she said with a shy little smile. The pans were still warm from her stove, and the scent that leaked through the foil was heavenly. They must have kept the chill out as she carried them. They turned out to contain a tuna casserole and a fresh apple pie. "I'm Mrs. Hudson and I live just up the hill a little ways."

John could see already that Mrs. Hudson was the kind of person who could smile a hurricane into submission, and probably had. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I saw your truck outside . . . can't remember the last time I saw one parked up here," she said, smiling _him_ into submission without further ado.

"I'm John. I'm a doctor." What else was he supposed to say? God, it sounded bland to say it like that . . . 

"Oh, you're so modest. The sheriff already told me you're a doctor and you were in the Army and you just came home from overseas. Thank you for your service, and..."

"Well, all that's true, ma'am. Did you _walk_ here? Carrying all that?"

"Oh, it's no trouble. Although my doctor says I shouldn't, with my bad hip an' all, but I say we should use what we have until we don't have it anymore."

"That's wise," John nodded, finding himself beaming right back at her.

"You're new around these parts."

"Yes. Kind of. This is my grandparents' land, or it was. I'm just staying here till . . . Well, as long as I have to I guess." 

"Well," she beamed. "Looks like I'm the designated welcome wagon! It don't look like much, I know, but Stanger is a good town. Good people." She nodded encouragingly, all earnestness. "Good people."

"Yes, it's nice and quiet." He realized he was making her stand outside on a decidedly inhospitable November morning. "Oh, sorry, uh . . ." John scrambled to step back and make way without wincing too obviously. "Please. Have a seat. I can't thank you enough, you're very kind. Share it with me – I wish I had more to offer but – " he gestured around the little room.

"Ooh, cold in here, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson said, crossing the threshold. She pulled her shawl tighter around her tiny frame. "Well, it needs a little fixin' up, and that's a fact. I just want you to know, I live right up the hill, and I do love to cook and have company, and I just got me a brand-new washer-dryer from Sears, and any time you need anything or want to visit, you come on by. I have my bridge night with the girls on Tuesday and I go to church of a Sunday morning, but any old time you like . . . "

John grinned. She was awfully infectious. "Well, that's real kind of you, Mrs. Hudson. And if you need anything done around the house, you need stuff carried or driveway shoveled when the snow comes – " _The leg will just have to put up with it,_ John thought defiantly at it. " – I'll be right there for you." He ripped a piece of newspaper off and wrote down his phone number.

"I see you favorin' that leg," she said softly. "Did that happen in the war?"

"Yeah, it sure did."

"It's a damn shame," she said, her mouth a sad line. "Mrs. Turner on Route 68 down yonder, her sister's boy lost a hand. I think she was even grateful for that, 'cause at least most of him came home. Still, it's awful hard. I'm glad you've come home."

"I am too," John said quietly, though he still wasn't sure home was quite the right word.

"So, you said your kin live around here?"

"They used to. My grandparents had a house about ten miles away, but it's gone. I don't have any kin to speak of left, not really."

"Oh, you poor thing. Well then," she said, "we'll just have to make sure you're looked after. It's not good for a young man to live alone, you know."

"Yeah. I mean, no. I _mean_ you're right about that, and I do thank you for extending your hospitality, ma'am." God was this what social interactions were like for him, now? How was he supposed to cope with people more intimidating than Mrs. Hudson, who was apparently a more benevolent version of the nosy neighbor on Bewitched.

She put a comforting hand on his arm, and on second thought John could actually get used to a maternal figure dropping into his dismal trailer-bound life, from time to time. "Well then. Because you _are_ new in town, you probably don't know about the dance this weekend. You should make an appearance, do you good. People will talk if you don't come, you know, and you wouldn't want that, now would you?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Got a lot of recluses in Stanger, huh?"

"Oh, _all_ sorts will be there," Mrs. Hudson continued brightly. "You really should come down and join in the fun. Look at me and my hip! I can't dance without a lot of fuss, but that's not going to stop me from having a good time. Who knows, you may even meet someone, while you're there."

*******

John succumbed easily. Just a day later, he called Mrs. Hudson on the party line, waited for interminable minutes while another conversation wound down – his attention wandered, but at least one voice on the line was compelling (a deep, fast-moving, articulate one, berating some poor conversational partner about how some local fiddler was a soulless mimic, and _obviously_ the fiddle he was trying to sell was stolen, as the bridge was filed for the particular style of double-stopping used by Surry-County-style Tommy Jarrell devotees, whereas the fiddler himself was a G.B. Grayson imitator . . . oh God he never let up). 

Finally John decided to just make himself walk up there – no matter how long it took – to see if she needed any help with anything.

His heart started racing when he saw the sheriff's car in her driveway. He reminded himself, _C'mon, man, you've seen this car go up and down this road twice in the last 24 hours, odds are damn good the sheriff just lives up that hill._

Mrs. Hudson didn't need help – except with eating her fresh pot of beef and vegetable stew.

"I tried to call . . . " John said.

"Oh honey, it can be so hard to get through sometimes." She shot a chiding glance at the man at her table – the sheriff, obviously. John would guess early forties, graying, pleasant-faced. He rose to shake John's hand. 

"Greg Lestrade, a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Nice to meet you too," John said, a little weakly, though he returned the strong handshake. "John Watson."

"Welcome home," Lestrade said.

"The sheriff was just fillin' me in on the latest about the murders," Mrs. Hudson said, with a wry little smile. "Nothin' he's not allowed to tell, of course."

Sheriff Lestrade cast his eyes towards high heaven and sighed. "Fine welcome back for a vet, talkin' about the murders when he ain't even unpacked yet."

"Murders?" John said.

Lestrade sighed. "Nothin' to worry about for you, John."

She gave him a wink.

"Well, I'd best be heading on," said Lestrade. "Got an errand to run."

"Don't you be coy with me, sir," Mrs. Hudson said. "I know you're goin' up that hill again. There's no shame at all in asking for advice when you need it, not in times like these."

"You never miss a bit of traffic on this road, do you?"

"There ain't very much, so I notice when it happens. Now, you tell _him_ that if he don't come down here for Thanksgiving supper like he promised, I'm gonna call you up and turn him in for runnin' a still. Again."

Lestrade gave a sigh that looked long-suffering. "You want me to tell him . . . that you'll report him . . . to me."

"Well, sure, I think it'd carry more weight comin' from the sheriff, don't you?"

The sheriff laughed. "Prob'ly not to him. Alright, ma'am, but you know I cain't arrest a man for missin' out on your cooking. Put him in the loonybin, maybe. Though there's those that say he belongs there anyway."

Mrs. Hudson's face grew suddenly stern. "I won't hear a word said against him, you know that."

"I sure do. You take care now. And you, sir – John. Welcome again!"

John gave a weak wave, and gratefully took the chair Mrs. Hudson offered.

As soon as the door was closed, Mrs. Hudson served a huge heaping of stew over potatoes, and fixed John with a look. "Well, yes, the murders, I know you want to know. Nothin' very near here, nothin' to worry about for us. And not that many. I mean, you were in the war, so . . . "

"No, it's okay, I don't scare easy."

"Of course not. It's just that there's been so many in every county nearby over the last year or so, and they ain't the usual. Weird ways o' death, weird places. Some of 'em were a mite bit gruesome. So sometimes, even the sheriff thinks he needs some help sometimes."

"Can't hold that against him," John said through a mouthful of gravy, "So where's he goin' then?"

"Well, you know I said we had all kinds," Mrs. Hudson said. "He's goin' to meet up with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, lives up at the very top of our holler. You know, the big house at the end of Route 221 – with the bees?"

John really wished he'd been able to make that walk, or at least taken the truck up there to see the place where the road dead-ended. Government maps told him the state road petered out just about a half mile above Mrs. Hudson's place, where the terrain began to rise into an unmapped mountain. It didn't surprise him that there'd be an old house there, but he did wonder what kind of person would want to live there.

Mrs. Hudson leaned in and lowered her voice: "He's the kind of person everyone goes to when they have a problem, but no one wants to admit it. I think it's shameful, the way they treat him. He's odd, but he's a good man."

And the mental image John formed came straight from the folktales of his childhood – an old hillbilly conjurer, the mountain man, a shaggy guy with a huge beard and very few teeth, in dirty overalls, with a shotgun perpetually on his arm – and a sort of rare, keen intelligence based on the kind of survival skills that people with cars and running water had long since lost. People like that were rare and hard to find even in the 40s when he was little – but he _had_ met one, once, so he knew they were real. He decided he'd check out that house soon, if he could manage to do it discreetly and without collapsing when his leg gave out.

"So you will be goin' to the dance, then," Mrs. Hudson said, changing the subject deftly back to her latest fixation. "It's quite the place for singles to meet."

John sighed. "May I have the honor of escortin' you?"

She giggled. "Oh no, I have to get up early to cook for the church luncheon. But you bet I'll be askin' you all about it, so you better go, and I'll know if you didn't."

*******

When John finally persuaded himself to wake the old truck again up for a trip into town, he turned it to the blacktop state road that intersected the tiny little glorified driveway that Route 221 had become so far from the town's heart. The longer he drove the more he relaxed, although that might've had something to do with the chew he was indulging in.

Stanger, like many other towns like it, had set up its main street along a thin strip of much-coveted and very rare horizontal land. A row of storefronts, a set of railroad tracks that crossed streets imperiously, a few iron bridges that crossed its little river, with all too little gratitude considering that river was the only reason Stanger had any flat land in the first place. Hills rose up sharply from either side, and were dotted with fading woodframe houses rising at crazy angles, connected with each other by steps and concrete earth walls smeared with green moss. From a distance it looked as modestly prosperous as it had once been, but the further into town you got, the more you saw the cracks in the walls, the boards and newspapers on windows of long-shuttered businesses – yeah, back in the 40s and 50s maybe a miner could have bought his girl a little diamond, but there wasn't much call for that these days, with a dwindling and aging population. It was the same all over the coalfields; Stanger was close kin to Hinton and Thurmond and Mullens and War and Oceana and Welch and Pineville and Matewan and Logan, and shared their fading fate. 

When you really got close, you could see that many of the houses were leaning and swaybacked, their yards full of the brown skeletons of waist-high weeds.

It wasn't all desolation, of course, the little diner still did a bustling business, and so apparently did the couple of taverns on the outside of town that'd be as busy on Saturday night as the churches would be on Sunday morning. The Goodwill store was in good shape, the Woolworth's, the hunting and camping supply, the beer-and-grocery packette, the auto repair, the little gas-station-cum-restaurant-cum taxidermy shop. A locksmith, a shoe store, a little branch of a bank based in Charleston, the Moose Lodge, the UMWA, of course the ubiquitous VFW, just about the biggest building downtown bar a wall of very old warehouses. There was the sheriff's office, that's where Greg Lestrade would be whenever he wasn't driving up and down John's little road. 

Nearest real hospital was probably . . . damn, Beckley, come to think of it, maybe Welch. John couldn't help but notice that. Stanger had some clinics and a dentist, but imagine if someone needed urgent help. You'd call the rescue squad, probably volunteers, and they'd get their ambulance out there as fast as they could, which wouldn't be very fast at all on these roads, especially in the winter. Funny the things you think about when you've been patching people up for years, John thought. The idea would never have occurred to him when he was a kid in these hills, climbing trees and jumping into cricks without the slightest thought of safety. No wonder his father had packed them all off to Charleston the first chance he got, looking for a better place to patch people up.

John had to be careful about the road he was on, headed west – if he let himself, he'd find himself at the ruins of the old Watson place just up the mountain. It really wasn't something he ever thought he needed to see again, but he was bound to pick that scab off sooner or later.

It took some effort to roll down the window and spit the chew out, but that burst of cold air was pleasantly refreshing. Well, alright. So his life here wasn't shaping up the way he imagined it. The very least he supposed he could do is go to that damn dance, and maybe treat himself to a new shirt.

*******


	2. Danse Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If John had read his tea leaves or his fortune cookie, it would have said "You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger." And there ain't _nobody_ stranger.

When John drove up to the VFW building he was distracted by the elaborate sunset. It was all dark red splotches and bright blue edges of clouds, vibrant pink shards trickling through it here and there. It was too exotic for Stanger.

So basically John couldn't even enjoy a perfectly good sunset now without finding something wrong with it. Great.

He put his truck in park and hopped out, propping his cane against the car door. He ducked to straighten up in the side mirror and caught sight of an approaching pack of girls dressed to the nines – well, dressed to the nines by West Virginian standards, anyway. He tilted his head as they passed him in a wave of overeager perfume and very tight jeans that were probably illegal in a couple of states. So maybe not exactly 'to the nines'. 

John stood back up, immediately unbalanced because of his leg and narrowly missed making a complete idiot out of himself. Why was he doing this again? He snatched up his cane, because it was definitely the cane's fault he needed a cane in the first place. 

Another pack of girls – and my God, how many were there in this town? – loitered outside the door. They seemed much less bubbly, but considerably more, well, _available._ One was talking animatedly to her friend, who was sitting boredly on the wheel stop and clearly wanted no part in the conversation. A third girl giggled and twined her hair around her fingers while a man old enough to be her father leaned against the building and ogled her.

"Can't remember the last time I seen you around town," the ogler said. "In fact I could'a sworn you went away to some fancy school upstate."

"Who me?" She angled herself closer to him. "Lived here all my life. But I might hafta get out more often if it means talkin' to fine gentlemen like yourself."

 

If John had still had two good legs, he would have kicked himself, because he caught himself thinking that that girl could do a lot better than that guy – for example, maybe himself, who was at least only old enough to be her uncle. _Ohhh John Watson, no,_ he chided himself. _She may not be jailbait now, but she was about ten minutes ago. Christ._ He needed to get his head examined even more than he needed to get laid. Maybe both. But not by a teenager wearing too much blue eyeshadow.

The girl hunched over on the ground stared at him unblinkingly the whole time he approached. She wasn't impressed with him, it seemed. There was something about her stare that made John want to put a door between himself and it as soon as possible, and he just tried not to limp too much as he did that.

As soon as he crossed the threshold into the little town hall he was assaulted by sound, music, and the microphoned caller rising over everything with random, made-up sounding dance figures. " _Yip and holler and everybody swing!_ " he shouted, and everyone on the dance floor shifted in sync like a school of fish.

The band was of the old school by way of the bluegrass conventions – string bass, banjo, guitar, and a fiddler who looked like he was trying to saw off his own arm to get out of a bear trap. Dancers' feet kept the rhythm – truer than the band did – and John was a little in awe of the layer of flying feet across the floor.

The low-ceilinged room was dimly lit but warm and welcoming as could be. A sizeable crowd of people were dancing in the middle of the cleared out space while others milled about on the sidelines next to folded up chairs, mingling under old photographs and framed lists of the dead. 

Clearly Mrs. Hudson wasn't only one who'd had news of John's arrival. People whispered to one another and cast furtive glances his way as he walked past.

It was a strange sensation to be in Stanger as an adult – all his memories of the place were confused by a childhood filter. He supposed he'd never really thought of it as a real place where grownups lived. What to do now that he was one?

Rising above frantic, indistinct fiddling, the caller shouted, " _Circle home don't take all day!_ " The whirling pairs made another formation, as precise as fighter jets over the base.

"You're that doctor, ain'tcha?" The man who had spoken appeared seemingly out of nowhere and smiled broadly at him. He had stubble on his face and an expression that seemed stuck in a perpetual smirk.

"Doctor who – ? Oh, uh. Yes. Dr. John Watson." John had to switch his cane to his left hand just to shake hands. The man's shirt was unbuttoned halfway, and it made John feel awkward and overdressed.

"Pleased to meet ya. Doctor," the man said, gleaming at him. It was disconcerting.

"Likewise, uh – ?"

"Just call me Tanner," he said quietly, leaning closer to compensate for the noisy music. "Now, you bein' new in town, bet you don't know about the murders."

". . . Murders."

"Yep. Every couple months some poor young woman turn up dead, seems. And the cops, well they don't know _what_ it is. Tell you what, though, it's high time there was _some_ excitement in this town. You cain't say it ain't at least excitin'."

"Yeah, I heard about that. So we got a Jack the Ripper, maybe, just killing folks for the hell of it? A local chapter of the Manson Family up the road from me?"

Tanner laughed, which was soft and at odds with his rugged appearance. "God only knows, Johnny, God only knows. But just between you an' me, what kinda tenderfoot thinks it's a good idea to wander around these here woods at night without a gun? You know?" He laughed and clapped John forcefully on the shoulder.

John's involuntarily exhale would hopefully pass for a laugh. "Yeah." He'd killed people before, but whatever sense of duty or self-defense or plain necessity he'd felt at the time had long since dissipated and left him with a sick twist in the pit of his stomach. 

Everyone he'd killed had thought the same things he had about duty and honor and the reasons why someone slightly different had to die. He wanted to know, suddenly, what it looked like inside a Vietnamese veterans center. Even if they didn't have any such thing, people would still have gathered around tables at cafeterias and talked quietly amongst themselves in the post-war corporate jungle. Were there flag smothered walls that you didn't know how to feel about, like here? Did they periodically shove all the clutter of chairs and medals and memories off to the side to make room for normal, untroubled people to dance heedlessly into the night, too?

"Welp!" Tanner said, hand sliding over John's shoulder before he removed it. "It was a pleasure. See you round, Johnny."

John watched him go, still preoccupied with fleeting thoughts of war. No gruesome, explicit flashbacks – just a permeating sense of the way people died so easily in chokingly hot, gorgeously lush foreign valleys. And maybe these valleys weren't so different. 

He shook himself and waded through the crowd again, figuring he might have better luck dealing with someone less . . . peppy. He spotted a man standing alone in the corner in decidedly lived in clothes that stretched over his prominent muscles. He had a kind face, though, and his long hair was tied neatly back. Everyone around him shot him dirty looks, which only made John more curious about him. 

Someone nearly ran him over, just then, on her determined path through the crowd.

"Excuse me, miss," John said, bending painfully to pick his cane back up. The girl who turned around to face him was the apathetic one who couldn't even be bothered to stand, outside. He immediately regretted addressing her, and braced himself for whatever snide remark was forthcoming. "Do you, uh, do you know who that fella in the corner is? It's just I'm new in town, and – "

"I know."

"Um." John frowned. Her face was completely blank. "Okay, so – "

"I know you're the soldier back from war as just moved in. Everybody does. New people are the most interesting thing that can happen, round here."

John laughed, because her face still hadn't changed and he thought she might be kidding around. She didn't react to it, though. "Yeah, know what you mean. So, who's – ?"

"Lonnie Martelli. He's an ex-con, and people treat him like that means he's the devil. Everyone thinks he used to beat his wife, but his wife is a total bitch, so who knows. They say he's a draft dodger, too."

"Right, so – "

As if sensing the awkwardness of the moment, the caller chimed in with an inexplicable, " _Chase that rabbit, chase that squirrel!_ " Dancers broke into a different formation, couples moving up and down a double line, before splitting into a less formal arrangement. Couples were playfully mismatched this time and gender didn't seem to be a factor. Women's fluffy petticoats mingled with jeans and longtail shirts, and the stamp of boots got louder.

"Peace," the girl said tonelessly, already walking away.

John stood there blinking after her in disbelief, then collected himself, then resumed disbelief when he caught sight of a woman making her way over to him through the crowd. She smiled when he caught her eye, and he couldn't help giving her once over – legs for days and wavy hair and no ring and how the hell was a woman that beautiful not married? 

Then again, there was a war on.

How was he to go about charming a lady, anyway? He'd been a decent dancer way back when, back when you could listen to both the old-timey stuff and rock'n'roll, back when a knack for flat-footin' wasn't so incompatible with the Elvis hips if you played it just right. Well, John had never been all that handsome and he'd always been kinda short, so he had to have _something._ And that was one thing he didn't have anymore. He'd be very happy to live the rest of his life without ever seeing again a pretty face full of pity.

He was glad she was approaching him, to save himself the embarrassment of limping over to grovel at her feet or whatever he would've ended up doing. She held out a limp hand for him to shake and introduced herself: "Hello, there."

"John Watson." John shook her hand. "They don't have names in this town?"

She laughed. "My name is Mary Russell, if you want to know, but I wasn't fixin' on being quite so formal with you."

"Oh?" John smiled a little. "What were you fixin' on?"

She laughed again. "Well, _John Watson_ , I heard you was new in town. Word spreads fast in Stanger, which you'll find out soon enough, I reckon. And well, to be honest with you, I was wanting to spread some of the Word, myself."

John raised his eyebrows. "You can't know me all that well, ma'am, 'cause if you did, you'd know I grew up not far from here, and as such I happen to know all about our Lord Jesus Christ and what he gone and done about my sins."

"My mistake," Mary smiled. "And although you're not far off, there, I was meaning more in relation to the troubles what been plaguing our town, of late."

"The murders? I heard."

"I'm sure you did. Hard to avoid it. But I just wanted you to know you ain't like to be in danger, yourself. It's only been those as deserved it been killed, so far."

"I see," John said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "If you don't mind my asking, how is it they deserved gettin' killed?"

"The lot of them didn't have much in common apart from living sinful lives. One of old Mrs. McKenna's kin," And Mary drops to a whisper to say, "He was a _hippie_ ," before continuing: "Good-looking boy, though. Shame about that anti American nonsense. He turned up dead not three months ago. Gruesome as all hell, it was, tore apart limb from limb. Then there was a colored girl come into town a few years back, and when she was found beat and bloodied out in Gregson Woods, well, nobody was surprised. I heard tell she was a prostitute, back in Knoxville. You only had to look at her to see it was the truth. That was, oh, back around Christmas last year, I do believe. The list goes on. God rest their souls, of course, but well, I ain't sure if He'll see fit for them to rest in _heaven_. Lord knows they had it comin', and if this purgin' of their vile, un-Christian ways ain't God's work then I don't know what is."

John cleared his throat. "I hear you. Well, Miss Russell, it was a pleasure makin' your acquaintance," he said, then hurried to leave before she had a chance to be offended. He had a clearer understanding of her ringless status now, at least.

John bumped into someone not ten paces into his daring escape, mumbled an apology and backed up. Never went smooth. How come it never went smooth? At least he hadn't dropped his cane, this time. He was about ready to give up on the whole pointless charade and come crawling back to Mrs. Hudson with her innocuous chatter and fantastic home cooking.

The caller, in the background: " _One more change and home you go!_ "

John was just trying to locate the exit when he felt eyes on him. Again. And these eyes felt different. He'd gotten paranoid during his tour of duty, and with good reason, but this time he was sure someone was staring at him. He turned around slowly and confirmed his suspicions.

Lestrade was nearby, trying to look as if he wasn't there in an official capacity, and he shot John a half-attentive friendly little wave, but it was clear he was really focused on a rather heated three-way exchange between his deputy – amazingly enough, a very pretty dark-skinned woman – and a tall, thin man in a long black coat. John couldn't hear a word of it over the music, even as he came close to the only familiar face in the room. The latter two looked like only the long arm of the law in between them was keeping the fisticuffs at bay. But the argument ended abruptly as the man obviously tuned her out mid-insult and focused all his attention straight on John, staring openly at him.

And indeed, after another minute of awkward standoff the man pushed past his companions. They looked none too pleased with his rudeness, and the woman gestured after him while the sheriff nodded and waved her off impatiently.

The man walked up to John, all pale skin and dark clothes. A pair of piercingly blue eyes stared down at him, which was even more intimidating up close. "Dr. John Watson, Army captain with a purple heart but a physically sound leg. You had a private practice in a much more populated area, but your roots are definitely here. Your daddy's been dead for years, but you're still desperate to do good by him. You'd planned on taking up residence on your family's land, but that went south pretty quick, so you're making do in a sorry excuse for a trailer out on Route 221."

"I . . ."

The man rolled his eyes, exasperated. "It's a small town. People talk."

John frowned, because it was pretty clear already that this guy wasn't someone who talked to people willingly. 

It was right about then that someone came up to talk to him. 

"Made it into town at last, Sherlock? How long as it been? A couple years at least by my last count . . ."

"It's none of your business, Mycroft."

"Oh but it is. Or are you bored of having a roof over your head, already?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than pester me? I think there's a box of donuts over by the bar with your name on it."

While they sparred, John had a chance to catch up. The man who had first talked to him – talked _at_ him, more like – was dressed very warmly for being indoors, and although his attire was definitely weather appropriate, but it still looked very out of place. The cut of his coat was much too ritzy. He wore dress pants instead of jeans, and it wasn't like he'd just come from church. 

But it wasn't just his clothes that made him stand out. There was a quiet stillness about him that was intriguing. You could practically feel sharp, restless energy bubbling just beneath the surface. 

The other one was even more out of place, if that was possible. No one else would wear a suit like that to a place like this. No one else would even _have_ a suit like that. Probably cost as much as John's trailer – and around here, that just wasn't done.

"What are you _doing_ here anyway? Not enough drama to keep you occupied in D.C.?"

Mycroft smiled. "In a way, that's why I'm here. But you do need checking up on, Sherlock."

_Sherlock._ Stanger was a damn small town, and even a big city probably wouldn't have two people with a name like that. 

John hadn't been included in the conversation, and he should've just moved on, but he was frozen to the spot. It was fascinating to watch this Mr. Sherlock character yammer on because it seemed like he just never, ever stopped. 

"Oh, just stay out of it, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. "I promise I'll come crying to you if I spill any milk."

"It's not actually milk that concerns me, it's the fact that for once, I actually really could use your – "

"Not interested, thanks," Sherlock said, then noticed John again. "You've been surpassingly rude, you know. Interrupting my conversation with John, here."

It was only then that Mycroft took notice of John, at all. He smiled and shook his hand firmly.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said, ingratiating from head to toe. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. I have a feeling it'll be good to have a medical man close at hand, considering the . . . " He made a face. ". . . unsavory events of the last few months."

"And you, sir," John said. "It's just a job, you understand. What do you do?" 

"Oh, I'm in the hotel business," Mycroft said vaguely, and Sherlock snorted in the background. Mycroft gave him a glare which Sherlock didn't back down from for a second. "I _will_ be in touch," he said, then nodded to John and took his leave.

" _So_ ," John said lamely, "You haven't introduced yourself properly."

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh? _Oh_. Okay. Got it." Official, then. This _was_ his eccentric recluse of a neighbor. John barely suppressed a hysterical giggle to think of how far off-base his mental image had been. It must've been Sherlock's unblinking gaze that had John so out of sorts. "Why were you, uh . . ." How to put this diplomatically?

"Staring at you? Well, you are the talk of the town." Sherlock had very pronounced cheekbones, and the shadowy lighting of the hall only served to accentuate them, and God those eyes were just impossibly blue. The man didn't look like he belonged to this world. 

"O- _kay_ . . ." John swallowed. "Well, most people do seem to know that. They _don't_ seem to know quite so many details as you do, though. So . . . guess I'm just wonderin' . . . "

"How the hell do I know so much about you?" Sherlock smirked. "It's not rocket science. I merely observe."

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock ignored him. "What are you even doing at a dance if you're not planning on dancing?"

"What makes you think I'm not – ?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over him then, and John couldn't help feeling self conscious. "Shoes," he said, then tilted his head and added, "Sleeves."

"I. Just. _What?_ " John had expected something more like _That pronounced limp of yours was kind of a giveaway._ That would've made, you know, _sense_.

"Those aren't exactly what you'd call dancing shoes."

"It's not tap dancing, you know," John said. "Sleeves?"

"Not rolled up."

John laughed. "Don't see much need to roll up your sleeves for dancing. Last I checked, that's what you call a figure of speech."

"So you _were_ planning on dancing."

"Well, I mean . . ." John was withering under that relentless gaze. ". . . well, my leg. So."

"We'll see about that."

"I mean, I – _what?_ " 

And before John could think Sherlock had dragged him out onto the dance floor.

It was like he'd timed it exactly so the moment they set foot on the floor the caller was shouting a new set of dance figures out. John was too disoriented to notice what he'd said, but he heard it when Sherlock leaned closer and said, "Follow my lead." 

Sherlock spun John around, and John was surprised by how quickly he remembered the steps. He waited for a lull in the music to ask Sherlock, "You know this dance, huh?"

"No."

John laughed. "Right."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I watched. I've been here for long enough to understand the basics."

"Oh, really," John drawled, watching Sherlock execute every step with casual precision. "How long?"

"The sheriff's bellyaching definitely doesn't demand my full attention. I must've been watching everyone dancing for a good five minutes, which is more than enough."

"Um." 

The caller shouted, " _Circle four for half the night!_ "

John could barely keep up, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own, and whenever he got a good look at Sherlock he ended up laughing, because although Sherlock was kind of obnoxiously talented and that five minutes thing had obviously been a joke, his stoic, sullen face was nothing short of hilarious.

John had to detour to dance with one of the neighboring ladies, who turned out _not_ to be a lady. The stranger's face ran through a myriad of expressions: befuddlement, shock, mild disgust, and finally a very staunch and manly denial.

Luckily the music changed and John was back dancing with Sherlock again. As he linked their arms and spun them, Sherlock leaned in to say, "You swing like thunder, huh?"

"I . . . " John had an exasperated tirade on the tip of his tongue but ended up giggling instead.

The caller shouted: " _Hands on wrists and swing like thunder!_ " 

"Ah. Gotcha." John grinned. "And hell yes I can." 

The music swirled around the dancers, faster and faster and the people were a blur and Sherlock's _face._ This was so ridiculous, and things like this never happened to him. John almost ran into another couple when the music stuttered to a flourishing finish. 

Sherlock was standing there, ridiculous in his coat, watching him intently. "How's your leg?"

John was still out of breath. "My what?" he gasped.

It was then that the crowd parted and the sheriff came charging through, determination writ on his features. He was not to be messed with, but John found himself wishing Sherlock would mess with him, just to see what would happen.

"Sherlock," the sheriff said. "You'll be wanting to see this."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, _what_ now, you can't seriously – "

"Something new, this time."

Sherlock paused mid-rant and looked at him. "You sure?"

"Come and see for yourself," the sheriff shrugged, then turned and left without saying anything more. 

Sherlock did the same, and left John standing alone in the crowd feeling suddenly bereft, and – 

"You're a doctor," came Sherlock's subsonic voice. John turned around to find its source and had to tilt his head back just to meet Sherlock's eyes, he'd been standing so close behind him, "You're an Army doctor."

"Yes," John said slowly. Then because Sherlock was still studying his face, more confidently, "Yes."

Sherlock pretended to consider this. "Hm. So you're acclimated to violence?"

John drew himself up. "Seen my share of action. Too much if you ask me."

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "So you coming or what?"

John's face broke into a grin the same time Sherlock's did, and he followed him with some difficulty through the relentlessly lively crowd. God they were boring.

"This what you do?" John said, catching up. "You just hold court at community events and let people come to you instead of actually socializing?"

"Works pretty well, don't you think?"

"Guess that depends on what you're tryin' to do," John said, following Sherlock as though tied to him by gravity. Lestrade and the deputy were just getting in their car outside, parked up close as it was in the special little gravel parking lot.

"You'll be riding with me," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question. John was already figuring he probably didn't ask too many of those.

"Um . . . "

"Lestrade and Donovan are taking up the front seat in their car. You're new in town, so you won't want to be seen in the back seat of the sheriff's car. People will talk."

John stopped up short when he saw the vehicle they were approaching. "Yeah, like dancing with me didn't get 'em . . . And they won't if they see us in . . . that?" How the _hell_ could he have missed that in the parking lot before? It was probably 50s, pretty well-kept, long and black and be-finned and be-chromed. It would have been kind of stylish if it wasn't a fucking _hearse._

"People already talk about me, always drawing completely wrong conclusions," Sherlock said. The lights of the lot and headlights around him cast his eyes a cool silver, and John thought he saw some amusement there.

"Well, I sure as hell don't want to be ridin' in the back seat of this one!"

"Is the passenger seat acceptable?"

"I reckon it'll have to be."

Sherlock nodded, and soon they were following the sheriff's car out of town, past the taverns with the trucks and motorcycles, past the railroad yards and the coal loaders and slowly up a hillside, as houses dwindled, streetlights disappeared entirely, and the grade grew steeper.

Later that night, as the band was packing up their gear, the banjo player found an abandoned cane propped against a folding chair. He helpfully turned it in to the janitor, and never gave it another moment's thought for the rest of his life.

*******


	3. The Hearse, the Horse, and the Hoarder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A muddy riverbank has a lot to tell, and John goes exploring.

Whenever John thought he knew were they were they'd take an unexpected turn and he'd be disoriented again. It was more than a little disconcerting to be riding in a hearse, mostly because of how normal it was inside. Sherlock's . . . proactive driving didn't help.

"Spit it out," Sherlock said, eyes on the road.

"What?"

"You want to say something, so spit it out."

"I get the doctor stuff. Hell, I even get the army stuff. But how'd you know about my father?"

"Memorial on the wall at the VFW. John Watson Sr. was wounded in action. Simple."

"O _kay_ but where'd you get that I'm, what was it, desperate to impress him?"

"Do good by him," Sherlock corrected. "And I didn't get it from anything. Why else would you go to war?"

"Oh gee, I dunno, the draft?"

Sherlock laughed.

"Getting drafted is funny now?"

"You volunteered."

It was true, but John got the feeling that asking how Sherlock had known that would only cause further irritation. As it was he couldn't quite keep the testiness out of his voice as he asked, "And how'd you know I was a doctor, since we're on the subject? The sheriff told you, right?"

"Mary Russell."

"So you eavesdropped. Isn't that cheating?"

"Miss Russell only bothers flirting with doctors."

"Ah." John wasn't sure whether he should be insulted. "And you know this how?"

"Please. Everyone in the Tri-County area knows that," Sherlock said. "Everyone also knows about the strip mining forcing people out of their homes. And _I_ know that one of those is the Watson estate, because I pay attention."

"Okay, but – "

"The trailer down the road is newly occupied, and I didn’t recognize one of the trucks in the parking lot at the dance. Or you. Therefore, you're a Watson. It's easy enough to guess you're named after your father."

"You . . . you could've just . . ." John couldn't catch his breath. "Actually, that's really impressive." 

Sherlock's train of thought ground to a halt. He looked at John a bit suspiciously. "Not really."

"No, it is. It's unbelievable. _You're_ unbelievable." 

Sherlock studied John like he was an undiscovered species. "That's not what people usually say . . . "

"Why, what do they say?"

"I'm afraid it's not appropriate to repeat in polite conversation."

John laughed, and Sherlock's mouth quirked up before he continued: "Your limp – whether legitimate or not – for obvious reasons points to you being wounded in action and sent home. Also, the troops are now starting to come home. Kind of." 

"Thank God for that," John said. "Or at least the President."

"I wouldn't put too much faith in, well, either of them if I were you."

"Oh come on, at least Nixon's trying. He went to China, didn't he?"

"That's not exactly a gesture of operatic proportions. Lots of people fly on planes." Sherlock made a particularly sharp turn that took them onto a dirt road. Bare trees loomed over them like a gossip-greedy crowd, and John could barely see the purplish late night sky through their interlocking branches. "I bet you're convinced he recorded everything for perfectly innocent and patriotic reasons, too."

"I mean, it makes sense, I guess. For all we know there's some secret classified operation or, I dunno . . ."

Sherlock snorted. "Like what, an alien invasion?"

John folded his arms. "Look, I'm sure he had a good reason to tape everything. He _is_ the President."

"Hm. It won't end well, though."

"Oh come on, he's the _President_ , Jesus . . ."

"You keep saying that. But I'm right," Sherlock said, unconcerned, then added, "No need to get upset."

"What are – _I'm not upset!_ "

"You went to Vietnam against your will, of course you're upset."

"I wasn’t drafted," John defended, wondering how they'd gotten on this subject again. "I – "

"Volunteered. Yes, I know." John couldn't tell in the dimness, but if Sherlock wasn't actively rolling his eyes it sure sounded like he wanted to. 

They pulled up to the sheriff's car, parked halfway off the road at a precarious angle with its lights flashing. John got out of the car – hearse, that is – first, pulled his jacket tighter around himself against the cold.

John always expected it to smell more like leaves and woodsmoke. And it did, sometimes, but when he thought of holiday visits and his grandparents' house the memories were inevitably leaf and woodsmoke scented. It had felt so wondrous and exciting as a kid, but now everything just felt dull. 

"John," Sherlock said, abruptly close, and John couldn't help being startled. "Come on."

"Yeah, coming." he managed. It was well after dusk but Sherlock was still like a force of nature, so close, and that made it hard to focus.

The dark-skinned female officer from the dance was leaning against the sheriff's car, waiting for them. She nodded to John and introduced herself as, "Deputy Donovan," then gave Sherlock a cursory glance. "Body was found down by the creek."

She didn't say another word as she led them through the little stretch of quiet, quiet woods, and the only sound was of brittle leaves crunching under their feet. Sherlock didn’t exactly wait for John to catch up, and his coat billowed out around him dramatically.

They reached the creek in a matter of minutes. Lestrade was there, and a handful of other policemen who were taking pictures and looking busy. Sherlock walked right up to him.

"Why didn't you tell me you found another body?" Sherlock said by way of greeting.

"Well," Lestrade said, "it took us a couple days to find _all_ of it."

"What do you mean?"

"It's all back at the station."

"Then why did you bring me here?" Was he always so impatient? "I do need to see the _body_ , Lestrade."

Lestrade sighed. "Fine, but it'll have to wait till tomorrow, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Listen, I dunno if you know this, but we don't typically keep the morgue open all hours of the night. Now come on, down by the creek." Lestrade finally noticed John. "Dr. Watson? Why are you – ?"

"He's with me."

"Yeah, but – "

"He's with me," Sherlock repeated, and Lestrade left it alone.

Sherlock produced a flashlight out of nowhere and inspected the gravelly sand at the water's edge.

"You don't have to bother with all that," Lestrade insisted to Sherlock. "We already know who she is." 

The concentrated beam of the flashlight didn't hit Sherlock's face directly, but it still lent it a ghostly glow. His features looked sharp and artistic in the shadows. "Do you? So you know she's a twenty year old high school graduate still living with her parents. You must also know that she was strangled to death around midday two days ago."

John couldn't help asking, "How do you know . . . ?"

"Class ring," Sherlock said impatiently. He pushed it through the sand with the toe of his shoe. "If she were in college she would've ditched it before now. Also, she wouldn't still be _here_. Year on the ring gives us her age. Of course she lives with her parents."

"I . . ." John shook his head. "Midday?"

"Hunters would've found the body a lot sooner had she been killed at night, dusk, or dawn."

"That's . . . amazing," John breathed, and Sherlock gave him an odd little look before Lestrade jumped in:

"Her name's Hannah Hartman. Twenty years old, parents own a store and make a decent profit. Last seen by her sister Elise and reported missing yesterday."

Sherlock snorted. "Well thank goodness for missing persons reports, otherwise how would you have known where to start guessing who she was? Why, you might've had to do something drastic like look at the evidence. Frankly I'm shocked you even noticed the victim is female, considering the short hair and – "

Lestrade cut him off: "Listen, I said we know _who_ she is, not her damn life story."

Sherlock crouched in the mud by the creek, studying it from every angle. "That's like saying you know who I am just because you know my name and address."

"Yeah, well – wait, how did you know about the short hair, anyway?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He knelt in the damp sand to study the ground more closely, hair falling in his face and flashlight shining bright little zigzags to and fro. He said, "She wasn't killed here, that much is obvious," and didn't elaborate. 

Lestrade couldn't seem to find words. John glanced between them before venturing, "So where was she killed?"

Sherlock seemed surprised to hear John's voice, didn't look up but inclined his body toward him ever so slightly while he spoke. "Just look around. There would be significantly more blood if she'd been killed here. The murderer killed her somewhere else, then waded into the creek a little ways upstream and dropped the body here on purpose to make it look like it'd washed up. Look at the sand." And he shone the flashlight over the upset earth. "The body alone wouldn't've left such deep grooves. Someone else was here . . ." Sherlock looked out over the icy water, and his face in profile was calm and still and completely unlike his conversation.

"So he killed her away yonder, then drug the body all the way over here? Well, let's go and see what we can find upstream, then." Lestrade beckoned to Donovan, who looked plenty put upon before jogging off to check it out.

Sherlock didn't say anything further, just stared at the water as if waiting for it to offer up more clues. The silence made John itch, and he had to ask, "Why, though?"

Sherlock straightened up, even looked at John this time. "Why what?"

"Why did the murderer kill her somewhere else and then bring the body here? Just to avoid leaving evidence? Seems a lot of trouble to go to."

Sherlock didn't smile, but he did turn to Lestrade and say, "See, these are the kind of questions you _should_ be asking, Sheriff. It was done because simply dumping the body in the creek would mean risking it wouldn't be found. And the murderer wanted it found."

"So the killer just up and walked away after laying this poor girl out for us to find? Well, great. There's no footprints, thanks to the leaves."

"Oh, yeah, you're right," Sherlock said, dripping with sarcasm. "We should probably just give up now, Sheriff. There aren't any _footprints_ after all."

John tried very hard not to giggle at a crime scene, but it was a near thing.

" _So_ ," Lestrade continued, "the murder weapon, whatever tools he used, all of it washed away downstream, that what you think?"

"Perhaps."

Donovan emerged from the woods and came up to Lestrade. While they talked John made his way carefully down the little incline to where Sherlock stood at the water's edge tossing his flashlight around anxiously.

"So what's different, this time?" John asked. "The sheriff said something was different." 

"Different?" Sherlock said vaguely, still staring intently into the darkness. "Nothing so far. Lestrade isn't a complete idiot – he knew it would get me to come."

"What did you come for, anyway?" John asked, suddenly unsure if this question was allowed. "You're not a . . . well, you're not a cop, are you?"

Sherlock pocketed his flashlight. "It would have been someone she trusted." 

John frowned. "How do you know she wasn't just surprised by a stranger?"

"Shoes."

John didn't see any, though. "What . . . ?"

Lestrade had been making his way over to them. "Well who'd she be out here with, anyway, her boyfriend?"

"Kinda chilly for that, isn't it?" John said, and Lestrade deflated a little. 

Sherlock flashed a quick smile, then leapt to his feet and stalked over to Donovan. "What did you find?"

"Nothing," Donovan said, smug as all hell. "No signs of a struggle. No blood or footprints or nothin'."

Sherlock practically growled, "No no no, there _has_ to be . . ."

"Maybe the killer figured he'd best clean up," Donovan shrugged.

"That's not it," Sherlock muttered. "Something missing. Show me." He headed upstream again without waiting for Donovan, and she scrambled to catch up to him.

John turned to Lestrade to say something but Lestrade was already busy talking to the other officers milling about. He wasn't sure what to do other than wait for Sherlock to come back.

John looked at the creek bank, really looked. How the hell could Sherlock see so much in it? John saw sand and tiny rocks and feeble patches of dead grass, all of it disturbingly darkened in places by what had to be blood. Matted leaves and mud and the suggestion of footprints, but nothing concrete.

By the time John clambered to his feet Donovan had returned and was chatting with Lestrade. And Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

"Hey, where's – "

"He took off," was all Donovan said.

Lestrade gave a long-suffering look. "No point in taking off after him, either. He's on the scent of something and you won't get him off it till he's got it all worked out. I'm beat. John, you should come with us, we'll give you a ride back to your truck. I don't know how he thinks he's gonna find anything in the pitch-dark out here, but he won't come back until he does."

So John wound up taking a ride in the back of the sheriff's car after all, but there was no one left to see.

*******

It was one of the many versions of the standard John Watson nightmare. 

This was the self-centered version; the one about his own death, not someone else's. The one where an explosion happened, and John's head was still awake and aware enough to look down at the ruins of his torso blown apart, and in those last seconds catalogue exactly how hopeless the damage was: liver, intestines, stomach, diaphragm, all irreparably shredded . . . yeah, no coming back from that, it all looks like a run-over possum on the road. _I don't care what the poet said, if going gentle into that good night was an option, you bet your ass I'd take it._

Going gentle isn't a choice he was offered. 

This _was_ a new version of the nightmare, though, because now there was a strong, deep voice categorizing all the problems: _obvious cause of death was machine-gun fire to the chest, look at the lungs, he was dead before he fell. But THIS is interesting, look at the trauma to the abdomen, that came later. Why?_

In this version of the nightmare, John hasn't had his falling moment and jerked awake in tears yet, he's still waiting to hear what that voice will say. 

_It looks – on the surface – like the work of a Vietminh land mine. But that type of mine isn't currently used in this area, and even if it were, it should have hit him much lower if he just stepped on it, like the official report says. Why are his legs and pelvic region still mostly intact?_

In the traditional version of the dream, John would have long since woken up screaming in his bed – just as he'd done at the base at Saigon and the one at West Berlin, at Walter Reed in D.C., in a motel in Charlottesville, ad literally nauseum. 

Instead John was _still_ dreaming, lying in a gruesome mess of blood and tissue on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, looking up with technically dead eyes at the face of Sherlock Holmes – who wasn't mourning or panicking, just thinking of nothing but finding out the real truth of John's death, and still wearing that coat in the tropical heat.

John never found out what Sherlock might have figured out in his dream, but it was still a relatively gentle wakening, without tears, and he felt gratitude for that. It was just his little alarm clock's bell. It was 8 AM. Late, for him. Military habits never die, they just fade away . . . maybe. It was still fairly dark, there were high ridges to the east as well as the west. But at least he'd been able to sleep about five hours at a stretch, for once.

John had been so caught up in the narrative of his dream that he had to remind himself that he was still very much alive. Therefore, fascinating as the answer might be, there was no reason whatsoever to ask Sherlock who had killed him and why. Still, he wanted to go at last to that house on the hill anyway. Apparently curiosity was contagious, or at least damn likely to flare up out of dormancy if a mysterious stranger drives you to a place in the woods where a murder victim's body's been found and then leaves you there without so much as a good-night. 

John got up and made himself some coffee, threw on a pair of hiking boots over his flannel pajamas to brave the frosty grass to the outhouse, and started to make up a plan. He considered inventing a pretext, then gave that up quickly as useless. Maybe just "Why the hell'd you leave me there, you asshole?" And "So, did you find out anything new?"

John dithered far more over the sad little collection of clothes in his trunk now than he had the night before for the dance, and he barely stopped to think that was odd. After all, he'd had the new shirt. Couldn't wear that again the next day, not if you're going to see the same people. Well, at least one of the same people.

Dammit. He was going to have to take Mrs. Hudson up on her offer, wasn't he, either that or brave the crowded, run-down laundromat in town. Well, he'd be damned if he'd let her lift a finger or touch his skivvies. Maybe he'd bring her a bottle of wine and let her take a load off. Did she even drink wine? What church did she say she went to?

_Ridiculous, workin' yourself up like that,_ John thought. He heard the wind rising and settled on a sweater of a heathery gray. Blend in if he had to go running through the woods for some reason.

Why was it so important to find out more about this man, so quickly? Just to even up the score, since Sherlock already knew so damn much about him?

_A walk could be just the thing,_ John thought. The mere sight of the interior of his trailer was making him feel cramped. He'd never again be as fit as he once was, but that didn't mean he'd have to become a complete lump. Besides, it was a little bit stealthier, though why he wanted that, he wasn't sure. He didn't think anyone would be out to see on such a chilly morning, but if so, what of it?

Dressed and breakfasted and as ready as he was going to get, he pulled on his snug old jacket and headed out the door. The screen door shut with a loud bang.

John placed his first boot on the road, and tried not to think about how he was committing himself to walking probably near to a mile, there and back again, all uphill the first way, and it was being gloriously majestically easy. Mrs. Hudson's house came up so much quicker than it had before, and passed by quickly too. He smiled and waved in case she was at her window – oh no, she wouldn't be, church, yes, her little blue car was gone.

By all rights John should not be feeling this good. He'd been angry. There'd been bad dreams. The day was another gloomy and damp one, and now his shoulder – with the very real scarring from the very real wound – was aching slightly from the chill.

And still.

The road rose up sharply, putting more strain on his legs, and still John kept going. There was a sharp, Mobius-strip-like switchback, and John almost lost his footing on the loose rocks. But he didn't fall. He kept going.

Up ahead, far above him, he could see the crest of the mountain now – austere in the season, gray with a coat of naked deciduous trees, tinged a dark green with pine and spruce near the summit. Unmarked by the cut of any road.

When he rounded the next treacherous bend, he could see the eaves of an old farmhouse just above the banks of the road.

END STATE MAINTENANCE, said the sign with ominous blandness.

The passing of the last sharp curve let John finally see Castle Sherlock in all its glory. It was a big old Victorian pile, once smartly whitewashed, now peeling to gray, its tin roof covered in patches of red rust. The long porch and the pillars of the balcony looked slightly bent and swayed, but there was still probably another century of life left in it if its inhabitant would just keep it up.

The instinct to hello the house rose up in John, and it put up a good fight, but it lost out in the end to his desire to just plain snoop. There was wholesome-smelling woodsmoke from the chimney, and a bitter aftertaste of less wholesome chemical smells in the air. 

The yard, oh my God, the yard. It occurred to John then that the house looked a lot like it should belong to the kind of person John had first _thought_ Sherlock was. Now, John was a West Virginian born and bred, and he'd seen a lot of impressive collections of hillbilly lawn ornaments, as those yardfuls of rusting junk are often called. But Sherlock's yard deserved some kind of award in this category. Old cars, appliances, furniture, farm equipment, what looked like a complete and operational moonshine still he didn't even bother to try to hide in the woods like a decent person, sure, Sherlock's yard had all that. It was just so vast in its scope and its commanding sweep of history, from stone tools to the space age. It looked like a gang of marauding Amish had looted NASA.

That couldn't possibly be a piece of a Panzer, could it? Apparently it could. And the sharp, spiky wheeled things all around it, well, John knew they were probably farm equipment nobody alive now would remember how to use, but they could also pass for torture devices or seige engines. There were motors and piping and tanks and blades and old car shells, and an early rough draft of a motorcycle, and a rack of tanned hides, and part of the wing of an obsolete airplane.

But to the corner of the yard where it curved around behind the house, things looked much more orderly – which was the exact reverse of what even the most defiant of rednecks would generally do. There was an almost elegant row of square beehives lined up against the back of the hillside, and beyond that the remnant of a winter-dormant garden. John still had some scruples about wandering too far around a near-stranger's yard without invitation, though, fascinating as those outbuildings over yonder (but no out _house_ , John noted with envy) might be.

He already knew some things he hadn't known before. Sherlock Holmes wasn't allergic to bee stings, for example. Hopefully he had some kind of superhuman immunity to tetanus and snakebite as well.

When John turned around to go to the front door and knock on it and pretend he was just arriving, he saw that it was already open.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said, standing on the porch in his long coat and shiny shoes like he'd been expecting him. He probably had. And probably had been watching him for a while.

"Mornin'!" John said with giddy forced cheer, and only got a smug chuckle for his trouble.

"If I had shot you for trespassing, there's not a jury here that would convict me," Sherlock said, without the slightest trace of anger or threat in his voice.

"I know," John said, because he _did_ know that, very well, and not hello-ing out was a choice he'd made out of his own perversity. "But I didn't think you would."

"Sound conclusion. I'd even go so far as to say you _knew_ I wouldn't."

John walked slowly towards Sherlock and the porch, wondering for a moment if Sherlock was going to invite him in. He tried, none too subtly, to peer past him into the house. But Sherlock had a scarf around his long neck and his car keys – well, his hearse keys – in his long hand, and you didn't need to be a genius to reckon he was on his way out.

"Goin' to church?" John said.

Sherlock laughed. "In a sense. Get in, we're going to the morgue."

_Of course,_ John thought. _Of course we are. Where else would we be going?_ He thought he ought to put up some token resistance, but what would be the point?

The wheels of the hearse spit up gravel as they rolled down the dubious road – and no, John didn't miss the studying gaze Sherlock gave his little trailer as they passed it. _He drives the same way he thinks,_ John thought. _There's a method in it, he knows what he's doing, but it's terrifying to anyone who isn't him._

"Yes! Good timing!" Sherlock blurted, appropos of nothing. "Stupid. I left my riding crop at the morgue last time."

Now _that_ was a sentence John had never heard uttered before in his life. "Oh, good," he said weakly. "So you can pick it up now." He let the silence unfold for a moment. "You ride horses?"

"No. Well, not very often. I _have_ one, it came with the house. Mostly-quarterhorse gelding named Arthur who lives up in the meadow by the barn. Haven't ridden him in months. He's always trying to kill me with deadly falls. He's no dumber than some of my human enemies, but no smarter either, so, tedious."

"Oh."

"But that's not what I use the riding crop for."

John turned half around in his seat and looked straight on at Sherlock's impassive profile. "You know what? I think you want me to ask about what you do use it for. And _I'm not going to_." Sherlock really did have a stunning smile. John felt proud of himself for bringing it on. And then he thought that if he kept thinking this way, he was going to have to open the door of the moving hearse and jump the fuck out, so he tried to make himself get angry again. "You're not going to ditch me again, are you?"

"Not if you can keep up."

John had no witty retort, so he just gave a testy grunt and sat back in the seat for a moment. "So . . . what are we going to see at the morgue?"

"Hannah Hartman's body. What there is of it. Lestrade told me it's not be a pretty sight, so prepare yourself."

"Army doctor just back from 'Nam, remember?"

"Of course I remember. I'm trying to give a courtesy I'm sure the war never did: a fair warning."

*******


	4. The Boscombe Holler Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We can't chew tobacco, this is a crime scene!

John had been in a great deal of depressing places in his life, and he wasn't going to say this dingy little afterthought of a room in the basement of the clinic was the most miserable – it wasn't – but it was right up there. Harsh lighting, buzzing and flickering, making even the living look corpselike.

The _smell._ God was having a good day when He invented Vicks Vapo-Rub.

Nobody but Sherlock had told John to brace himself for the sight, but maybe they just assumed he'd seen worse. He'd definitely seen as bad as, but this might have been worse because of the context. You expected this kind of thing in the middle of a warzone, not here. John saw pain and horror and gaping wounds, an unrecognizable face and that especially terrible taste in the air of losing someone so young.

John stopped in his tracks for a minute, but Sherlock kept right on going, peering very closely at the body, which was strewn across the table. Strewn was definitely the right word. John had made some flippant comment about Jack the Ripper before, but he was sure the mess in front of them could easily have rivaled one of his victims.

The body was missing a significant chunk of its chest and all of one arm. The nose was alarmingly missing as well, and all the fingers of the remaining hand had been messily severed. 

"Hm," Sherlock said impassively. "Well, that's quite a mess. Someone spent a lot of time on that. Both the killing and the knifework. She didn't go quickly and the killer never lost nerve, so it was either very personal or we're dealing with a trophy hunter who enjoys the process as much as the result. Those aren't mutually exclusive, either."

"How do you know she wasn't shot?" John didn't know how Sherlock could tell much of anything from the carnage laid out in front of them.

"Petechiae in the whites of her eyes; she was strangled. No need for that when you have a gun, and obviously the killer wasn't concerned about keeping her body intact. Also the incisions were made post-mortem."

"I didn't do anything yet," said a mousy young woman in a white coat as she emerged from the side door. John looked at her more closely. No, mousy only by mannerism. Pretty, actually, and in a medical field, had to be smart. No wedding ring. John started to flash her a winning smile – probably inappropriate under the circumstances but hey, he could cheerfully admit he was getting desperate – when Lestrade introduced them.

"Dr. Watson, this is Molly Hooper."

"Call me John, please," he said quickly, and then even in her handshake and her eyes looking right through him, he recognized a lost cause when he saw one. Molly's eyes, and therefore her heart and points south, were clearly already given over – to Sherlock. There was no one else in the room as far as she was concerned. Just her and him and a horribly butchered body.

John couldn't remember the last time a woman had looked at him that way, if ever. Still, he supposed Sherlock was pretty damn watchable, so he couldn't rightly blame her. Currently he was all but burying his nose under a flap of torn and mostly-detached skin.

"What are you going to do to her?" Molly asked him.

"So sentimental," he said without taking his eyes from a stretch of dangling connective tissue. "It's hardly a _her_ anymore. It's just dead meat, Molly."

"No," she said. "No, it's a her. Her name was Hannah. She's not a _thing_ , she's got a family who's gonna be glad we found her at least. She still deserves . . . care."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in the most dismissive manner possible. "Well then, Molly, you do your _caring_ and I'll do the thinking."

Then it was John's turn to bristle – there was something in Molly that he instinctively respected, something of the old-time healer, the midwife, the granny women who waited on birth and death.

Taking care of the dead was kinfolks' work, specifically women's, before the men in suits came in with their body-dressers who weren't mothers and daughters and sisters, with their shiny expensive coffins that weren't built by fathers and sons and brothers.

John wondered if Molly'd ever cared for the mortal shell of her own kin. She was young, but this far out in the hills, it wasn't impossible. There were still families who kept to the old ways. Very likely her mother had, and damn sure her grandmother did.

Sherlock didn't give a rat's ass, and for just a fleeting moment, John was less impressed with him. Unfortunately, those striking eyes of his were lighting up with epiphany just at that moment, and there was no resisting that.

"Can we get back to the fresh corpse two feet in front of us, now?" said Lestrade, clearly not invested in the soap opera dimensions.

"It's not."

"Oh sorry, let me get out my tape measure so we're sure everything's _accurate,_ " said Lestrade.

"It's not fresh," Sherlock said. "I told you last night. Two days old."

Lestrade laughed. "All the critters was waiting on you to come and examine the body before havin' at it, huh?"

"The body's traveled, I told you that already, too. Where she was found was not where she was killed. There's water damage but not two days' worth. There's a reason why she was found where she was. Even for you, this isn't complicated!" Sherlock's impatience was starting to cross the line into a manic sort of agitation, and John really really hoped that objects weren't about to start flying. 

"Okay," Lestrade said, unfazed. "But how do you know the body was in the water in the first place?"

Very slowly, as if he were talking to a child and not the damn sheriff, Sherlock continued: "Some water damage to the body is evident – even your people can see that – but it's not excessive. Er _go_ , the body was only in the water for a limited period of time, and certainly wasn't bobbing around for days on end. It wouldn't've remained this intact if that were the case, either."

"So there's no evidence."

"Wrong." Sherlock gestured at the wounds, which were much too grotesque to be so casual about. "This is done by an amateur, of course."

"That doesn't tell us anything," Lestrade said.

"It tells us it wasn't a surgeon, or someone trained as one. But you're right–that's not much help either since the only doctor in an eighteen mile radius is standing right here." He didn't even look at John. "And said doctor isn't clever enough to pull off hiding in plain sight like this. The only other medical professional in town is Dr. Paterson, DDS, and he's at least capable enough to have removed the teeth and prevented us from identifying the body for awhile."

John was planning on being offended, but then something occurred to him: "Maybe the killer made it look sloppier than a surgeon normally would've to throw us off the scent?"

"See? You aren't nearly smart enough to be the killer." Sherlock let out an impatient huff and smeared his wet fingers on a microscope slide. Why the hell had Sherlock dragged John here, anyway? To insult him? It certainly didn't seem like he needed help with any of this.

Molly approached hesitantly and opened her mouth to –

"Shut up and let me think. Don't even breathe stupid, okay? I'm allergic to it." 

Three sharp breaths were sucked in. "I'm gonna go get coffee," Molly said resignedly. "Who wants some?"

By the time she'd come back, juggling cups awkwardly and spilling dark brown all over her white coat, Sherlock had his answer.

"Copper Beech Creek," he said. "North end of Boscombe Holler."

"Oh yeah," Lestrade said. "Right by where the old Watson place used to – " and he cut himself off with a horrified look and glance at John. Too late.

John pretended he hadn't heard it, and still looked straight at Sherlock. "How the hell did you know that?"

"Sulfates and manganese. Obvious. Are you coming or not?"

"I guess I am."

"Wait – " Lestrade cut in. "Why are you taking _him?_ "

"I need an assistant," Sherlock said curtly. "He needs a mission."

_Ouch. Well, there you have it then,_ John thought. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Someday he would be, and John hoped he'd be around to see it.

But later, out of earshot of the others, in the hearse, over the sound of rattling gravel and the wind whistling in the window, John brought up the one thing he couldn't let slide.

"You should treat Molly better," John said. "She's a good woman."

"Boring."

"What's boring to you? The 'good' part or the 'woman' part?"

"Both."

"Right." John looked out the window as they drove to the edge of town, suspicion dawning as to just what Sherlock might have meant by that. “So where are we going again?” 

"The mud in Hannah's hair," Sherlock said, and John got the impression he'd be talking to himself whether John was there or not. "There's only one place it could have come from."

"Correct me if I'm wrong . . ." John was regretting this already. ". . . but how different can mud be, anyway? Isn't it all pretty much the same, around here?"

"Acid rock drainage isn't exactly uncommon, but there are some very specific areas where it occurs."

"And we're going to one of them?"

"Obviously." Sherlock took a shortcut down an unpaved alley to get them out of Stanger proper. The town was still and silent, everyone probably still in church, at this hour. Silent houses adorning choppy hillsides looked down on them watchfully as they passed the closed-for-Sunday post office, an elementary school with construction paper turkeys in all the windows. 

It was an overcast day, which made the occasional yellow ribboned tree even more brightly brilliant. They should've made John feel appreciated, probably, but all they did was remind him he didn't have anything waiting for him at home other than joblessness and a drunk of a brother.

The hearse bumped sluggishly over a set of train tracks and traversed a rusting bridge before they were finally free of the town. Sherlock didn't seem to feel like talking now, and when John glanced over at him he was using the same scrutinizing stare for the road ahead of them he'd used for that poor girl's body not ten minutes ago.

"From strip mining?"

"Hm?"

"Acid . . . stuff. It's from all the strip mining run rampant, right?"

"Nah," Sherlock said, speeding perilously on the narrowing road. "It occurs naturally, but any mining disturbs the earth so much that the sulfides oxidize from exposure and . . . that really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"Strip mining. You're a doctor, not a miner. I don't understand. Why would it upset you?"

"You're kidding, right? My family's home is _gone,_ now."

"Ah, of course," Sherlock said unconvincingly. "I see." 

"Oh come on, don't tell me you wouldn't be pissed if suddenly everything you knew was turned on its head and you found yourself stuck in a place you didn't want to be all because your idiot relatives couldn't be bothered to stop and think about what they were doing and . . . like . . ." John unclenched his hands and remembered you weren't supposed to rant at a relative stranger. "Well, you know how it is."

"In fact I do know how it is," Sherlock said. "Mining corporations have been soliciting me for years trying to get at my land. Easton-Bolan Coal Miners is just the latest in a long line of failed attempts."

"See, there you go! And I mean, why the hell are people still interested in this area after that fire? That was nearly twenty years ago – you'd think all the coal would've burned up, right?"

"Coal fires can burn underground for hundreds of years," Sherlock pointed out. "There _is_ a lot of fuel."

"Yeah, I guess."

Sherlock watched him for longer than John would've liked, considering the lack of railing on the cliff they were on, but when he turned his eyes back to the road John thought he caught a hint of a smile. John was determined to get a full blown grin out of Sherlock if it killed him.

John could only assume this was how Sherlock affected everyone, and it was probably the reason why they gave him such a wide berth – it wasn't just the rudeness. He demanded your attention whether you liked it or not, and he made a home there in your mind, sitting atop your perfectly serviceable brain and pointing out how wrong your every fleeting thought was, but you still ended up wanting to see if you could make him smile. 

Once you'd . . . _experienced_ the force of nature that was Sherlock, it was a struggle not to keep considering him in the back of your mind, what he might say or do, what sort of snide comment he'd have for the way you brushed your teeth or the laughable inefficiency of how you organized your silverware. And it had been, what, less than twenty four hours since John had even met him?

"We're here," Sherlock announced. They were at another creek, on much higher ground this time. The bank was muddy and less clogged up with leaves, and judging by the flattened grass at the water's edge a lot of people had come here over the years. Nice spot for fishing or swimming. Tubing, maybe.

Sherlock drove a little ways into the clearing, slammed on the brakes more forcefully than was strictly necessary. John was pretty sure this wasn't the wisest way to approach a crime scene, but he wasn't the expert, here.

Sherlock leapt out of the hearse like it'd burned him, and by the time John caught up to him Sherlock was in observation mode once again, pacing around with his arms vague and anxious or randomly ducking to study something from inches away. John could see Sherlock's face better here in the daylight – his lips moved with half-formed words and his eyes flicked back and forth so quickly John was surprised he wasn't dizzy with it. 

There was a lingering fog still anchored to the water, but they were mostly clear of it due to the steepness of the creek bank. Nearly bare tree branches swept downward and intruded on the space, and even John could tell some of them had been broken off – shards of branches and untrampled leaves scattered on the ground. The creek itself was wider here, too, with little broken off twigs making gentle dents in the water. John couldn't put his finger on why the place felt familiar. Maybe he'd come here in the distant recesses of his youth. He'd definitely recognized bits of the road on the way up, and as Lestrade had said, it really wasn't that far from his family's land at the other end of Boscombe Holler. Well, former land.

"Find anything?"

Sherlock made a dismissive little noise and continued in his pacing. John felt like he was in the way. He reached into his pocket for some chew and –

Sherlock was gaping at him. 

"I . . . normal people do this." This was going to be his catchphrase, wasn't it? "Look – are you serious? You don't at least smoke?"

"Not at a _crime scene._ "

"It's relaxing!"

"I guess. I took up smoking to quit chewing, but honestly I prefer Benzedrine over both." 

"I . . . wait, is that even legal?"

But Sherlock was done listening. He squinted at something on the ground, picked it up and stowed it in a tiny container that he produced seemingly from thin air, then shoved it back in his pocket. Sherlock wasn't wearing gloves, John realized, and he had to be freezing. Long bony hands that were really very graceful in an artistic sort of way, but they couldn't be much good for warmth. 

Sherlock walked up to a large tree branch that hung out over the creek, studying it from all angles. After a minute of silence he said, "I've written extensively on the properties of the various tobacco products currently on the market, you know." 

"For what, your dissertation?"

"No . . . I wrote my dissertation on cryptography. Well, the first time . . ."

"I'm sorry, _where_ did you go to college?"

"Ah!" Sherlock patted the tree branch fondly before wheeling on John. "I was right! Hannah Hartman was definitely killed here, at the swimming hole, with the rope." 

"What is this, Hillbilly Clue?"

"Don’t get me started on Clue and its so-called 'mysteries'," Sherlock said warningly before settling back into detective mode: "The murderer must have been someone she was close to, or at least someone who wasn't obviously intimidating. The shoes, John, remember?" 

"No?"

Sherlock huffed. "We've been over this."

"Okay, you just said 'shoes' and then stranded me in the woods."

"There _was_ a footprint where the body was found. Timberlands. Hannah's body wasn't dumped in the woods, she was killed here. Warm, practical shoes. She wasn't just in the wrong place at the wrong time, she was prepared for a lot of walking. 

"There used to be a tire swing, here. There had been for years, in fact, look how it warped the tree branch. The rope used to strangle Hannah was noticeably thick, unnecessarily thick to get the job done. The mud in her hair is the bigger giveaway, though. The soil in this part of the hills has much higher manganese content, and the mines a few miles upstream create significant runoff, which is more concentrated here than it is down where the body was found. And the sulfates, obviously. Simple."

John let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Simple . . ."

"The tire swing is important, too. I saw the tracks when I was with Deputy Donovan, those unexplained single tire tracks, but it's even less carefully hidden, here."

"What is?"

"Look at the ground, John. Really look."

"I . . . oh. Tire tracks. God, they're everywhere."

"The murderer made a halfhearted effort to cover them up by sweeping a branch over them – eastern white pine, from the look of it – but there's only so much you can do with mud like this. It was easier to conceal where the body was found because of the leaves, but the tire tracks were still there. Also the police weren't looking for tire tracks – small wonder why they need me to point out the obvious to them. The murderer used the rope from the tire swing to strangle Hannah, and then used the tire itself to transport the body to somewhere it was sure to be found, which also indicates they're not physically strong enough to just carry it over such a distance. The first snow could fall any day now, so why would anyone think to investigate a swimming hole? As for where the tire is now, it was probably just let go in the creek after its purpose had been served."

"Wait, so, you're saying the murderer what, stuffed this poor girl's body into a tire and rolled it a couple miles away just to make sure we got to see his work? Ugh . . ."

"It's a big tire, John, look at the tracks."

"Wasn't really talking plausibility."

"The murderer used everything that was available, and covered up any footprints in the process. Very economical," Sherlock said appreciatively. His face was alight, which was a bit disturbing given the context. His pale cheeks were flushed with cold or excitement or both.

John cleared his throat. "Okay, but the body was, well, _dissected_. I don't see any evidence of that, do you?" Oh God he really hoped he hadn't missed something obvious.

"The body had to have been operated on elsewhere, perhaps in the back of a pickup and possibly with the help of a third party because, as aforementioned, the murderer was likely not very strong, and before you ask, no, the body wouldn't've been transported using a vehicle because there is too much opportunity for witnesses or an incompetent local cop like Deputy Anderson pulling them over whether they're _actually_ speeding or not . . . In any case the incisions were made post-mortem, so there wouldn't be quite so much bleeding, to begin with, and whatever there was would've been contained in the truck. Most likely a deer carcass was put in its place to account for the blood should anyone ask." Sherlock said all of it like an afterthought, staring into space with his eyes flicking back and forth until they settled on John again, especially blue under the overcast sky. Sherlock's breath was visible in the cold.

John had to clear his throat again. "How do you know there even was a truck? Do you just guess half of this stuff?"

Sherlock paid attention at that, stiffened a bit. "It's not a _guess_ , it's the most logical conclusion."

"Okay, okay," John said. "Sorry. So, what about the others?"

"Hm?"

"The other people who've been murdered. If it's the same guy, wouldn't they all be connected somehow?"

"Yes."

"So . . ."

"Don't know yet." It was clear this irked Sherlock to no end.

John wasn't sure what to say. "Well, dunno about you, but I'm starvin'. Know anywhere good to eat around here?"


	5. Ain't No Fortunate Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to see the battlefield - and then the US Government calls.

"Aren't you ordering anything?" John asked after the waitress finished pouring his coffee and left to tend to the other diner patrons.

"Food isn't necessary," Sherlock said dismissively. He swiveled moodily on the stool next to John. "Slows the mind."

"Uh, I beg to differ, Sherlock. At least order some coffee when she comes back. Come on, doctor's orders."

Sherlock shrugged, fingers tapping restlessly on the bar. His mind was still as preoccupied as it had been back at the swimming hole. John took a sip of his own coffee, and when he set it back on the bar Sherlock flinched as if John's very presence was an imposition. " _Why_ did you want to eat?"

Very patiently, John said, "It usually helps _me_ think. And, just so you know, saying 'Because I was hungry' is actually a perfectly valid reason for wanting to eat and doesn't really need any sarcastic follow up questions."

Sherlock wasn't convinced. He raised an eyebrow skeptically like he was actually Spock and resumed his staring contest with the menu board. God, it was like dealing with a child. John was considering asking the pretty young waitress for a coloring book.

They weren't the only ones in the diner, but it wasn't anywhere near full capacity. Too early, yet. The place was all cheery bright reds and black and white tiled walls, worn-in stools at the bar and outdated appliances behind the counter. The plates had little blue and yellow flowers on them, and the silverware came with those too-small paper napkins you only had at home.

He and Sherlock had gotten more than a few looks when they'd first come in, Sherlock shoving the door in so the bell rang violently before swooping inside with a scowl like the Caped Crusader, because really, that coat of his was just too much.

"I'm not the most popular guy in town," Sherlock said. 

"Okay how are you reading my mind, exactly? Is it all down to the angle of my head or the exact amount of coffee I've drunk or what?"

It got a hint of a smile out of him, at least. "Well, you're staring at them staring at me. Wasn't much of a leap."

"So, let's have it. Why do people, uh . . . ?"

"Despise me? Well, the obvious explanation would be jealousy, but in reality it's mostly just generic stupidity."

"Uh . . ."

"I'm different things to different people, anything they want me to be, really. Some are convinced I'm a communist."

"And are you?"

Sherlock snorted. "Politics don't matter to me. They come and go. Others think I'm a radical."

John laughed. "You? Oh come on, have these people even met you?"

"It's complicated," was all Sherlock said to that. "You know, I think I will order some coffee or something . . . "

"Wait, _are_ you some kind of radical?"

"Why don't you ask Sheriff Lestrade about all that?" Sherlock said testily. "He's more interested in the fine print of the law than I am."

"Okay, what are you talking about?"

"Suffice it to say he hasn't turned me in yet despite some very compelling warrants for my arrest in a couple of states, but he does it in exchange for my occasional help, so who's really the criminal here? I didn't even _do_ anything. I just 'knew too much' about things that were abundantly obvious to anyone who bothered even trying to look. But that's people for you."

"So you're indebted to a corrupt cop, is that what you're saying?"

"I trust him more than a professedly moral cop who insists he can't be bought."

"So when you say 'radical' . . ."

"Oh, don't say it like that. You certainly aren't overly fond of the government. You aren't a Weatherman like _I_ am, apparently, but still, you've got your reasons . . ." Sherlock was getting crankier by the minute. How had John gotten stuck with him, again?

"Hey there, Sherlock, maybe you should try eating something. Do you good."

"I _told_ you," Sherlock snapped. "Slows the mind."

"Fine. Sorry for bringing it up," John said, sighed and folded his arms. "So, you're not politically minded at all? Come on, that can't be true. You've gotta have an opinion about the war, at least, though I'll thank you not to be too loud about it, this very minute. Surprised you weren't in the war, actually, a guy your age." Well, Sherlock _looked_ young.

Nonchalantly, "Oh I was drafted, but they wouldn't take me."

"Um, how's that?"

"I believe the official reason was 'psychologically unfit'."

"So . . . no kids? No family?"

"No."

"Me, too. I mean, me either," John said, then because it looked like Sherlock might've thought he was being sarcastic, he added, "Groovy," and immediately wanted to kick himself.

Sherlock raised another eyebrow. "None of that is really my area. And especially the hippie slang."

"No, I know, I just. You know. It's cool. Whatever . . . shakes your . . . boat. I'm gonna shut up now. "

"I think that's for the best," Sherlock said. "Man."

Thankfully the waitress chose that moment to bring John his order.

John had wanted a gigantic, nearly burnt cheeseburger with overflowing ketchup and mustard and pickles and just the works the whole time he'd been in Southeast Asia. And he'd gotten one as soon as he'd landed in D.C., but it hadn't tasted like comfort food at all.

Sometimes, and very rarely, John's platoon would come across locals who didn't give them dirty looks or terrified looks, and they'd instead give the soldiers this noodley soup, phở, which seemed to be their version of comfort food, and it had tasted enough like Campbell's Chicken Noodle after weeks of gritty rations to feel fiercely comforting, too. 

"You miss it," Sherlock stated.

"Mm?" John said around a mouthful of soup. Eating and looking sidelong at Sherlock at the same time was a bit challenging.

"The war."

"What the hell? Of course not."

"You miss the excitement of it," Sherlock amended, then affected a local accent: "And Lord knows there ain't much in the way of excitement in Stanger."

"Well, I hear there's been this string of harrowing murders, but other than that . . ."

Sherlock was almost grinning. Almost. He spoke nostalgically: "The first was Rose Ewart, found about a year ago with multiple stab wounds in a river in Wyoming County, although the cause of death was methanol poisoning. A month later Selena Adkisson was bludgeoned to death and her body was dumped in a river, too, in McDowell. Nobody thought much of it because she was not only black but an out-of-towner. Not even Lestrade thinks that one's connected, but I'm sure it is. The next was Kelly Milligan. Her body was found Easter Sunday at the graveyard, just propped up against one of the graves for all to see. Josephine Bahr and Terry McKenna were killed this last summer. Josephine was a schoolteacher, and she was shot dead. Terry is, to date, the only male who's been killed. Not enough data to know if there's a significance to that. His was also the most gruesome murder until now. At least Hannah's body is mostly intact." 

"Oh." What the hell else was John supposed to say? "And you don't have any idea how they're connected?"

Sherlock bristled. "Other than the fact that they were all murdered at random over the last year? Nothing, really, except how unusual it is to have so many homicides so close together. And two of them - well, two and a half of them - found here? The last time anyone was convicted of murder in Arthel County was over ten years ago."

"Seriously?"

"I did say convicted."

"Gotcha." The waitress walked by again and John realized he'd barely touched his soup. "I mean, why can't it just be a bunch of unrelated coincidences?"

" _No_ , it has to be connected."

"Why, 'cause that's more interesting?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just rested his chin on his hands and stared at the glossy tiled wall. After a long moment he stood up, shoved his hands sullenly in his pockets and stalked toward the door.

John looked frantically from his still piping hot soup to the preoccupied waitress and back to Sherlock's retreating figure. He was _not_ getting left behind again. He prayed the cash he threw on the counter covered the bill, then scurried on after Sherlock again.

*******

"Where are we going?"

"Need to run some errands. Might as well do something productive." Sherlock mumbled it as they ricocheted down a windy road. They passed a few mismatched wooden signs (TACKLE, BAIT, FLY RODS and TOBACCO OUTLET ONE MILE AHEAD and GUNS! BUY - SELL - TRADE GUN DEPOT) before eventually pulling up to a lonely general store with a rusting roof. Crispy-dead ragweed was smeared between the tentative background trees, and one lonely sumac stuck out redly in defiance of winter.

Sherlock hopped out and made for the store, and he'd never waited for John once, had he? John was starting to wonder if Sherlock even remembered he was there, sighed his frustration to the endlessly disturbing hearse with its stately profile and its seafoam green curtains. And why the hell were the curtains even there, anyway? 

"Coming?" Sherlock called, standing in the middle of the dusty, otherwise empty parking lot and looking at John like he could read his every fleeting thought. As dismissive as Sherlock could be, John couldn't remember ever being noticed so much, either.

That's not to say Sherlock didn't turn around just as quickly and continue walking. John caught up with him eventually, struck by the loneliness of the place, here on the edge of fitful woods and far from civilization. Cheerful new John Deere's beckoned in desperate contrast to the grey-brown wood of the building, and the empty road they'd driven in on escaped in a hurry away toward town. The encroaching sugar maples were so silent.

John peered through the store's poster-choked front door – bingo night on Thursdays and that glitzy country star what's-her-name winking at him slyly – and could just glimpse Sherlock moving rapidly through the crowded shelves inside.

John found him among the horse bridles and harnesses juggling an armful of paraphernalia. Sherlock didn't say anything by way of explanation as he handed John a slightly curved metal _something_ and then wandered off. John sighed again, and followed him. Not tripping over the girl restocking the lower shelves was a near thing.

The aisles were so cramped that Sherlock brushed inconsiderately against John as he passed by and headed to the front of the store to get rung up. John sighed for the third and, he was determined, final time before following again.

Sherlock barely flinched when John thrust the metal object an inch away from his nose. "The hell is this supposed to be, exactly?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took it from him. "For the _bees_ , John."

"Oh right, well, of course I should've known that." John peered at the pile on the counter – fishing wire and cigarettes and . . . "Hey, uh, didn't you just give me a lecture about the evils of chewing tobacco?"

"Messiness."

"How . . ."

"Messiness, not evil. And it's not for me."

"Oh, so you're supporting my addiction, now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You were almost out. And you're less likely to be cranky in the future if you've got easy access to one of your coping mechanisms."

John couldn't tell if Sherlock was being secretly nice or just inadvertently nice. At this point John would take what he could get.

The cashier handed Sherlock a receipt. "Thanks again, Mr. Holmes. I must get at least half my business from you. Gotta tell you, though, it ain't easy keeping all these fancy chemistry accoutrements in stock."

"No, I bet it isn't," Sherlock said. "Thank you, Mr. Wiggins."

"Not a problem, not a problem. Take care now."

Sherlock turned, and John turned, and the girl who'd nearly tripped John up before succeeded expertly in tripping Sherlock, now.

Sherlock's purchases clattered to the floor along with the bundle she'd been carrying. Papers rained in slow motion all around, and she muttered apologies while a dozen reproductions of the country singer's face seemed to smirk at her clumsiness.

She stood up, and John recognized her.

"Oh, I am terrible sorry, mister, really I am," said the girl from the dance, the one with no time for friends or boys or any inclination to give John the time of day. She didn't even bother to glance at him now, either, just fiddled with her long yellow hair and fixated on Sherlock instead of gathering her things.

John wasn't _surprised_ to see her – you just ran into people, in small communities, and most stores managed to be the only place to get That One Thing. You didn't, however, usually run into people who had looked like death froze over but took a sudden turn for the amicable after catching sight of Sherlock Holmes and his oh-so-alluring aloofness and his, you know, his piercing gaze or whatever.

"Forget it," Sherlock said, and John had a strange little panic before realizing he was addressing the girl. Sneering at her, really, not that it deterred the starry-eyed look she was favoring him with.

"I'm so, so sorry, sir," she kept repeating, and the sing-song quality to her voice was grating. Even more annoying than her former iciness. It was a good thing Sherlock wasn't interested.

"I said forget it," Sherlock repeated flatly. She smiled so sweetly in return, but he just snatched up his things and left without helping her sort out the mess. John dithered for a minute before following him, and he didn't even remember to sigh about it.

Sherlock was busy organizing the trunk of, no, the _back_ of the hearse. The inside of the hearse? He straightened up as John approached, hair perpetually askew in a way that made John want to smooth it down.

"Just fits," Sherlock said proudly.

John peered into the hearse. It was literally brimming with random odds and ends. "Nice hoard you got there. I – "

Sherlock shoved him against the door, firm hand on John's shoulder. "Someone's coming."

"Um, so what? _Hey!_ " Sherlock shoved him a little further until John was more or less inside the hearse, and John was pretty sure there was a rifle and a toolbox and at least one spare tire digging into his back. "Sherlock," he hissed, but Sherlock just shushed him and pressed himself flat against the precarious contents of the hearse as much as possible. Sherlock breathed very evenly, but John could still feel it ghosting through his hair. He got distracted with wondering what it took to get Sherlock less even and more erratic, in general. Sherlock hadn't lessened his grip on John's shoulder a bit and the air was so thin with cold that John couldn't breathe.

A pickup pulled into the parking lot not a minute later. "Tanner Greer," Sherlock announced in a whisper, felt suddenly closer because his voice resonated in John's ears. John craned his neck to see but Sherlock just shoved him back down. "You'll give us away."

"Seriously? Don't you think _the hearse_ is a bit of a give away?"

"No, actually," Sherlock breathed. John got a look at this face, eyes darting around at unseen things in the background before finding John again. They were pale and silvery, right now, and the angle of the emerging noontime sun made his eyelashes glow around the edges. "People instinctively don't notice hearses. And if they do, it's only out of respect for whoever might be inside. They certainly don't start speculating on its driver's potential ulterior motives."

"But of course," John said sarcastically. "Nobody expects the local undertaker!"

Sherlock gave him a blanker look than usual. 

"British comedy. Thought you, at least, would appreciate the dryness." John went to rub at the back of his neck but Sherlock captured his wrist and held that still too. "You know, Sherlock, you're insisting I shut up and don't move, but I've gotta point out you're doing a lot of jumping around here just to keep me at bay."

"Shh, they're coming back."

"What do you mean, 'they'?"

"Shh!" Sherlock leaned into John like he was just another piece of junk to get a better view – cold clung to the buttons of his coat and made John shiver – then ducked down when the pickup drove off, side of his face against the side of John's face for a minute and his lips dragged over John's cheek accidentally as he pulled back.

John cleared his throat. "So? What's it mean? You think Tanner's the killer because he needed to stock up on suspicious instruments 'for the bees' or something?"

"Or something," Sherlock said, preoccupied with thinking. He could be so arrogant, but when he was thinking he wasn't aware of himself at all, which was probably about as unguarded as Sherlock would ever get. John looked on for a long while before Sherlock finally walked away to get into the driver's seat. "Are you _going_ to shut the door?" he asked imperiously while John was doing just that. 

John didn't argue, though, just slid into the passenger seat and wondered how he'd stumbled into a more psychologically complex version of The Odd Couple. 

*******

John was standing in his cold kitchen in pajamas and a heavy wool sweater, and he had just finished priding himself on not gagging on his imperfectly-stirred instant coffee when the cup dropped from his hand and shattered, just a second after the door to his trailer blew open.

A windgust? An intruder? Dammit, he knew not everyone around here locked the doors at night, but he sure did, he was sure he did.

It was an intruder of sorts, but one John was getting used to having around in every waking moment: it was Sherlock, standing there on his threshold, and vibrating so hard with rage that it didn't even seem like his eyes were taking in every humiliating detail as they normally would. _Thank God for small mercies,_ John thought.

"I can't believe I've been _interrupted,_ " Sherlock said, hissing through his teeth. "I'm so close on this case, so close. And then, my _brother . . ._ " He said it like an obscenity. "Get dressed, John, we have to go and get this over with."

"Excuse me?" John said, looking in vain for a rag to mop up the coffee spill with. "We? Where? Your brother did what?"

"Won't take no for an answer. Insists I at least meet with him. Matter of _national security_ , he said. What do I care? He could figure it out if he wanted to, he's no dumber than I am."

"What did you just say?"

"That Mycroft is at least as smart as me. I won't repeat it, but it's obvious."

"I just wanted to be sure I heard right, that's all, go on."

"Get dressed. You have to come with me. I told him I wouldn't go at all without you, so he had to accept that."

John counted to five. "Okay, but _where_ are we going?"

"White Sulphur Springs. The Greenbrier, of _course_ , where else, that arrogant martinet. Such a flair for drama."

"Well, thank God you're above that." Then John did a double take. "Did you just say the _Greenbrier?_ I don't have clothes for that kinda place. I never have!"

Sherlock smiled for the first time since he'd barged in. "I trust your judgment."

_Oh dear God I am fucked,_ John thought, and left Sherlock standing in what passed for the kitchen, without bothering to offer coffee. He took a quick look at the window, and sure enough, there was Sherlock's hearse, aimed in a half-assed diagonal direction at the driveway.

"Sure you won't let me drive?" John asked. "We could take my truck. Might fit in better." He looked at Sherlock and started to laugh. Finally, Sherlock did too.

"I don't think so, John."

"Why does your hearse have a gun rack?"

"To fit in better."

*******

According to the crude road map on John's lap, and his best efforts at eyeballing it against the scale line, the distance from Stanger to White Sulphur Springs was a little over 50 miles as the crow flies. None of the roads they were on were built with crows in mind, and for all the hearse's charming qualities, it didn't seem like it could fly (Though it came close, once, when a huge coal truck swerved around a blind curve taking up two-thirds of the road, and he and Sherlock were on the wrong side. Sherlock had good reflexes at least.)

"I bet the roads comin' from Nothern Virginia are a lot better," John said. "The Greenbrier wasn't built for coaltown people."

"It needs to be heated in the winter just like anywhere else," Sherlock said sullenly. "It's got railroad tracks for that."

"So are you gonna tell me more about your brother?"

"You met him," Sherlock said. "You tell me something."

"He said he was in the hotel business."

"Ah yes, that little grain of truth. Tell me, do you think he manages hotels? Owns them?"

"Probably not."

Sherlock chuckled coldly. "The hotel he's most concerned with right now is the Watergate."

_Oh._ "So he's some kind of government fixer. A spook?"

"Mycroft might tell you he occupies a minor position in the US Government."

John absorbed this for a second. Well, it did explain some things, more or less, or at least had the suggestion of an explanation. "And is it true what they say about the Greenbrier? You know, underground, the bunker thing . . . like in _Dr. Strangelove?_ "

"The underground bunker that nearly all nations involved in the Cold War have, to sequester the key figures of government in case of a nuclear attack? Yes, it's true. Don't let Mycroft know you've heard of it. It'll make him underestimate you less, and that could cause us difficulties."

John sat back for a little while, and watched the gray mountain ridges undulating overhead and watched the wall of trees pass by, broken from time to time by old houses and stores.

"You don't get along with your brother too good," John finally said. "Is he really that bad?"

Sherlock tightened his lips, and the gear shift made an awful sound under his hand. "Sibling rivalry has a long history in my family," he said. "You've seen my house. My great-grandfather built it as an older man, in 1887. He's buried at Arlington. His brother's in a Confederate cemetery in Virginia."

"Not an uncommon story around here."

"There's the niece who married a Hatfield, and the nephew a McCoy. There's the great-uncle who was a union organizer, and the one who was a – "

"Pinkerton?" John cut in.

"Baldwin-Felts, actually, but the principle applies."

"Battle of Blair Mountain?"

"Afraid so."

John whistled softly. "Your family tree's got a cliché on every branch."

"Holmeses don't miss out on history. Our particular defect."

"Watsons do."

Sherlock took his eyes off the road for far too long to study John. "You didn't."

John sighed, and addressed that gaze as straight-on as he could bear to. "Yeah, but I cain't say I achieved much. At least my name ain't on some memorial yet."

"You code-switch when you talk about your past."

"What?"

"Normally, the way you talk when you speak to me alone isn't the same way you sound when you talk to, say, Lestrade. You're highly educated and you've traveled, and I think when you're speaking to someone in Washington you'd sound very different. But the things that make you sad, they bring out the Appalachian dialect that's just as natural to you. Why?"

"Sherlock, you are one nosy son of a bitch, anyone ever tell you that?" 

Sherlock pouted. Then he snorted. Then he looked out the window. Then he looked back. "Yes. Yes, they certainly have." The thickness in his voice was from laughter. "But you're the one who lurked around my yard."

John just looked back and burst out laughing too. For such a dramatic figure, Sherlock had kind of a goofy laugh. It was a nice thing to hear; John had been braced for a long sulk.

After that, there came a silence that John would call 'companionable' if anyone was there to ask.

Being with Sherlock was a bit like being hungry for so long you couldn't even tell how poorly your brain was functioning or what a bad mood you were in. It was hard to think clearly with Sherlock being so _present_ , and John didn't even notice it till he'd got away from him for a minute and the fog had lifted.

John hated to admit it, but he did like being overwhelmed by a force greater than himself – it made him, by default of being a part of it, somehow greater.

He didn't necessarily _like_ feeling this way, but you couldn't deny it was better than not feeling anything, or at least that it was more interesting.

They passed Christmas tree farms, antiques stores, and countless billboards on the road, and the unexpected relief John felt whenever he saw a brand name he recognized, some local lawyer or healthcare provider, wasn't a simple matter of relief or recognition or even repetition – you never realized everything was run down and poor as shit when you were a kid. Realizing it now brought a strange sense of vindication, like you knew you were dissatisfied growing up but now you could latch onto a reason why, whether it was true or not.

On the other hand, you never understood how much you missed your home until you let yourself hate it and were dragged kicking and screaming back to it against your will, because then it surprised you with memory at every turn.

"You're going to pull something if you keep thinking so hard," Sherlock advised, eyes on the road. His voice was low and hushed as if in respect for the empty country around them. 

"Well, there is something I've been wondering about." John shifted around in the passenger seat, leaned halfway against the window the better to look at Sherlock, who probably didn't even known _how_ slouch. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why haven't you been on the case with all these murders, before? This has been going on for over a year, right?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not all of them were under Sheriff Lestrade's jurisdiction, of course. Terry McKenna was the first in Arthel County. Well . . . parts of him were, anyway. The only reason they came to me was because they had no suspects."

"And did you find any?"

Sherlock skipped right over that one. "I looked into the other murders, after that, for any possible connections to point me in the right direction. The only thing they all had in common – every single murder in the last year in this and the surrounding counties – was that obviously innocent people were convicted in all but one of them. They never even found enough evidence to convict someone of Selena Adkisson's, murder, according to Lestrade, but in truth they were deplorably lazy and just chalked it up to bad blood between her and some people back in Knoxville. I'm almost convinced one of the good sheriff's loyal little deputies is the culprit, though, at least in her case.

"The rest were your standard, backwoods domestic spats gone wrong, or at least that's what was assumed. I assumed it, too, which is why I didn't bother wasting my time investigating. Lestrade asked for my help on a few of them, probably because some were kin or friends of kin or distant church acquaintances of his wife's or something, but also because they weren't technically his cases, and I'm not technically a detective.

"Then there was Josephine Bahr, the schoolteacher from up Mullens way. Her body was pretty badly mangled, which was dramatic but not particularly notable. Terry's was even worse, though, and given the most recent find, it seems like a pattern is forming. The killer is either getting sloppier, or angrier, or running out of time. For what, though? I've been waiting _months_ now for another strike, and it hasn't yielded as much in the way of new clues as I had hoped. Until now, of course."

John let it ring in the air for a minute. "Do you always have to be so . . . so . . ."

"Magniloquent. And yes, I do. How else am I supposed to set myself apart from the average hillfolk of southern West Virginia?"

John gave him a once over. "Where to start? The air of mystery, the coat, the cheekbones . . . "

"Shut up, John." But he half-smiled.


	6. A Scandal in Bethesda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a glimpse down the Nixonian rabbit hole (as well as the Holmesian one). Sherlock gets a clue from a devious diva.

The Greenbrier had a long and storied history, even going back to the days when it was simply a resort that the wealthy folks of Virginia and Maryland and the cities of the East Coast would go to for the healthy mountain air and the restorative properties of the mineral springs for which the nearest town is named. That use dated back to the days of a country at war: the _Revolutionary_ War.

There was a luxury hotel first built there in the 19th century. By the 1970s, the original building had been replaced by several palatial guest-mansions and cottage complexes spread around square miles of grounds and golf course, and the location was so desirably remote and convenient at once that in the late 50s it was decided that this was where the President and Congress and other notables ought to spend the inevitable nuclear apocalypse, and a colossal underground bunker facility capable of housing over a thousand people was built, at the same time as a modern public wing overhead.

That was the rumor, anyway, had been for years, and for John to hear it so casually confirmed by someone who almost certainly would know, well, it put rather a different spin on his first impression of the place.

The Greenbrier wasn't generally a place that people who actually lived in West Virginia would go, unless they were employees.

Still, it didn't surprise John a bit that Sherlock was obviously very familiar with the place, and knew perfectly well where he was supposed to meet with his dreaded brother. Not the Windsor Club, that would be _ostentatious_. Not the West Virginia Wing either, that was too close to home sweet fallout shelter. No, Mycroft was a Virginia Wing man, at least this time around – off around a bend, but close to the center of the action. (John was sure Mycroft _could_ play golf if the situation called for it, but he couldn't imagine the man bothering otherwise.) And historic, of course, and exquisitely tasteful for a certain kind of taste that involved baroque antiques and rose-patterned wallpaper.

John was just glad that Mycroft wasn't looking at him as if he thought John might steal some silverware. Everyone at the front desk had.

"You're looking good, Mycroft," Sherlock said drily. "Not as tan as I'd expect from your little Greek island project, though."

"You're looking well too," said Mycroft archly. "I see you haven't started losing teeth yet."

 _Oh dear God,_ John thought. _This is like some terrible movie that pretentious people think is funny._

"And Dr. Watson," Mycroft said. "It's good to see you again. Perhaps your record of honorable service can prove a patriotic influence on my brother."

"With all due respect, sir," John said. "I think my own patriotism isn't at its highest tide right now." _Ain't_ , he kicked himself. _I should have said 'ain't.'_

The two raised eyebrows on two different faces removed any lingering doubts that the Holmeses were related by blood. And yet they managed to convey entirely different meanings.

"Well," John said, looking at them both. "What's the interestin' thing about me?"

"Some of our veterans haven't received the best welcome home, it's true," Mycroft said. "It truly is a national shame."

"It's really more about the men still _in_ the meatgrinder," John said. "And for what?"

"He'll tell you it's complicated," Sherlock said.

"Death ain't complicated," John muttered. And if he got thrown out of the royal presences for that, well, so be it.

But Mycroft only gave a somber little nod that was somehow both respectful and patronizing at once.

Sherlock's expression was quite a bit different. He _saw_. That didn't mean he'd stop talking. "The business my brother wants to discuss seems far removed from that. But it isn't really, is it, Mycroft? Do you want me to help you prop up the house of cards, or knock it down? If it's the latter, you'll hardly need my help. Or anyone's, for that matter. If it's the former, well, that hardly seems like a productive use of my time."

Mycroft drew himself up. "As opposed to sniffing up the bloodstains after primitives' personal feuds?" 

Then Mycroft seemed to realize immediately he'd shown too much. "Pardon me, Dr. Watson, I meant no offense. I am sometimes frustrated with my brother's – "

"Don't push me, Mycroft," Sherlock cut in. "You should know by now that has an effect on me that's the opposite of what you want. Tell me _specifics._ You can't possibly want me to return to Washington to work on your _situation_ full-time. I will only add to your worries and complicate your position. My exile is as much for your protection as mine, and you know it, and you know that I know it." He took a deep breath. "Furthermore, you probably know that I don't know any more than you do about Liddy and O'Brien and Haldeman – and Meier and Traficante, oh yes – but I don't know any _less_ either. I do know that you cannot have an unpredictable factor like me bulling around in your _china shop!_ "

Sherlock pronounced the last two words in a quiet fury.

 _Oh,_ John thought. _Probably spitting something back at him. Deep rabbit hole there._

Mycroft only looked flustered for a moment. "I have to be a diplomat, Sherlock. You don't, because I've protected you."

"Give me a task, if you must," Sherlock said. "If it interests me, I'll do it."

Mycroft gave a little laugh. "I can't promise it'll interest you." He glanced at John, quickly. "It involves a woman, so that's a strike against it, I suppose. I did my best to make it convenient, though."

"That's considerate of you," said Sherlock, in a tone that conveyed quite the opposite.

"I'm sure you've observed that there's a concert performance this evening."

"Yes, for the employees and guests of Forsyth Associates. Very generous."

"Irene Adler," said Mycroft.

John knew that both of them noticed the change in his expression and he didn't give a damn. Part of it was just putting the name to the striking face in those posters at the general store. Probably. "Wow, she's really hot right now . . . well, some would say she's hot all the time!"

Sherlock sat back, tapping his fingertips together. "A country singer. And you give a damn about her . . . why?"

Mycroft looked about to adopt a similar pose and thought better of it. "She's a lady of great ambition. 'Come up from nothin', as she might say. Native of Harlan County, Kentucky, with relatives on her mother's side very close to where you live now. That's not my concern. Neither is the salacious nature of her hit songs. My concern involves the time she's spent in Washington, being something of a party girl – but a very canny one. She has had . . . adventures . . . that were unfortunately captured in photographs."

"So she's a blackmailer then? Boring. You could have this taken care of. It's been done before."

"Not exactly," Mycroft said. "There have been no demands. Not from her, anyway."

"So what do you want from me?" Sherlock said. "I'm _not_ a diplomat. Nor am I a negotiator, a thief, or an assassin."

"You certainly _have_ been a thief," said Mycroft.

"Only for my own amusement."

"You think of little else. Well, that's what I'm asking. Just an interview with Miss Adler, and an assessment of the best way to acquire those photographs, or to minimize their damaging potential."

"Who?" Sherlock demanded. "Who is in those photographs?"

John had been watching this whole exchange like a tennis match, and he finally couldn't help blurting, "If it's Nixon, I do _not_ want to risk havin' to see 'em." _Well, someone had to say it._

"Don't be silly," Sherlock said with a grin, "He's a Quaker."

"So you'll do it?" Mycroft said. "For God and country?"

 _Holy hell,_ John thought. He could _see_ the layers of sarcasm, like geologic layers in a road-cut mountain.

"For a few weeks' peace from you," Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed and gave his little brother a look that John thought was almost fond, and opened his briefcase.

*******

Sherlock and John had been assigned a 2-bedroom suite in the Virginia Wing, largely for its close proximity to the ballroom, and therefore the performers' rooms, all of which existed in a complicated warren of 19th century hallways, full of alcoves and foyers and dead ends.

"Hello, Miss Adler," Sherlock said.

Irene Adler looked up from her dressing-table. With most of her stage makeup not yet applied, she was somehow even more striking than she was on the posters. There was still that crimson lipstick that perfectly matched the red satin bathrobe . . . and yet, she wasn't overdoing it. She could still be a mountain girl grown a little overripe, a little too lush and tropical, a little too worldly wise. Which, come to think of it, was exactly what she was. 

"Ah yes, Sherlock Holmes – Mycroft's little sniffer dog. I was expecting you." But there was a look in her eyes that suggested there was something about him she _wasn't_ expecting, something that was not unwelcome.

With her lean build, her chiseled profile, her shiny dark hair and her cool, knowing gray eyes, she and Sherlock could have been siblings. But the way she was looking at him was anything but sisterly – even by West Virginia standards.

"I know you're here about the photographs," she sighed. "I don't reckon it'd be enough if I promise you no one will ever see them? Not even you?"

"I have no desire to see them."

"Well, between you and me," she said with a lick of her lips. "They aren't very good. Bad lighting, bad angles. Nothin' like the real thing."

"And the gentleman, if that's the word, who's in them – " And then Sherlock interrupted himself with a wild little bark and a startled expression. "No!" he cried. "That's _not_ the word, is it? Not at all! It's not a man."

Irene just sighed again and almost seemed to let herself look a little bit sad. "Are you any more interested in seeing them now?"

"No," Sherlock said.

"I am," said John, who'd long since decided he was at least going to try to get a little amusement out of his status as third, fifth, and nineteenth wheel. Besides, she was even more beautiful in person.

"What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't, ma'am, nobody asked. John Watson."

"I do apologize," Irene said, her voice taking on the honeyed tones of the deeper South. "You seem like a sweetheart. I just knew that, runnin' around with this one, you weren't just here for an autograph."

"I suppose I wouldn't mind having one."

Sherlock was still thinking along his usual highly intrusive and inappropriate lines. "So . . . then the rumors about Dean's wife . . . not entirely without basis necessarily. Many of the details about the whole tangled web won't hold the attention of the sensation-seeking public who don't _think,_ but if there were revelations regarding sex and celebrities, well . . . But that could just as well prove a distraction to draw attention away from the things that really matter, so why _not_ let them leak . . . ?"

"I can hear you, you know," Irene cut in sharply. "Your whole reason for being here has nothin' to do with me, it's all about how your brother thinks you owe him something, and you been fighting since you were kids over who has the bigger dick, I mean brain, though isn't it the same thing with men? I see your game. You're just playing one. You don't really give a damn how it all turns out as long as you don't lose."

"That's – rather good," Sherlock admitted. "But you _do_ give a damn. You're protecting someone. Interesting."

"I'm protecting a life I want to have."

"You have someone in Nashville."

"Yes, and although _she_ knows I misbehave, I don't want _her_ and me all over the tabloids anymore than anybody in Washington wants to be there either."

John was strangely pleased to note that Sherlock looked quite taken aback. "So you're not interested in blackmail, then?"

"Hell no. I'm a _musician_. A very successful one at that, thank you, and I want to be more successful, so why would I waste my time getting people into trouble? I don't need any more scandals, my songs are dirty enough."

"Oh yeah," John said. "'The Woman Who Beat You,' that was a good one. A lot of stations won't even play it."

"But it got to Number 3 on the Billboard country chart anyway," Irene said with a wide red grin. "Fancy that. Now come with me, I wanna show you boys somethin'. _Not_ the photographs."

She pushed past them through the dressing room door and let them follow her down the long hallway to the backstage door. John was feeling a little cross-eyed with one eye on her fine behind and the other on Sherlock's – well, on Sherlock. Somewhere.

The stage was already swept and readied, with instruments awaiting their players. And there were more objects there, things you wouldn't necessarily expect to find on a stage, or anywhere except perhaps a museum of the macabre. Sherlock's eyes lit up immediately, of course. A thick hemp noose hanging from a stylized steel tree. "It's old," he said, running his fingertips over the coarse fibers and closely examining the inside edge. "And it's been used."

"Hanged a man for killin' his girl a hundred years ago, or so I'm told."

There was a large stone with a bloodstain Sherlock also proclaimed authentic, a Civil War-era rifle and bayonet, and hanging near Irene's microphone stand, a long dress in sombre black crepe, with a matching veil. Not the decorative little frill of a veil you'd find on a stylish hat but a long grim one, of the sort that hid a face and blocked out light. And tucked into the sleeves of the dress were mourning bracelets, woven of a loved one's hair.

By far the most impressively morbid item was the fiddle made of human bones and hair. It wasn't a pretty thing; it wasn't sleek and balanced and sensual like the more conventional wooden instrument, no – it was barely cobbled together, wobbly, pocked and ungainly. There was no good sound that was ever going to come out of it, if indeed it could make any sound at all.

"Amazing, isn't it," Irene said, nodding at the strange and sinister fetish object. 

"Eyecatching," Sherlock said drily, and clearly that was so, as he hadn't been able to take his eyes from it for long. "But useless. Overdramatic." Yet there was a sort of unwholesome sensuality in the way _he_ touched it, barely so, fingertips ghosting over and under the most delicate bones, flickering under the sternum and just dancing away from the armbone bow, as if he did in fact long to pick it up and try to make it sing.

"Yes, it certainly is . . . cinematic. Strange, though. I understand it comes from over by your way. Up in the coal fields. Arthel County, no less."

"Do you know Mike McClinton?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I do. Got a dulcimer player on the record I'm making now who swears by him. Half the bluegrass players in Nashville won't buy so much as a string from anyone else."

Sherlock shrugged, artfully. "There are some up that way who would probably say _he_ made it if they knew it existed. Publicity stunt, maybe. Or he's starting to crack like an old soundboard."

"Between you and me, I think he'd have done a better job."

Sherlock laughed, and watched her eyes. It couldn't have been a terribly interesting thing for him to watch, because her eyes were mostly addressing various points on his body and therefore probably not telling Sherlock much but the obvious. Sherlock didn't seem to care much. John didn't want to think too hard about why this was making him seethe. 

"Except I'm pretty sure he didn't, because this comes to me from a second cousin of mine on my mother's side who lives out that way, and _he_ swears up and down that he and his buddies found it in the woods on a hunting trip." Irene said. "He was going to call the sheriff, but he didn't. And then he heard that I was making an album with some of the gory old ballads and so I was collecting some artifacts, and so he gave it to me. That was real nice of him, but honestly, I don't like having it around that much. It gives me the creeps."

"Yes, there are a lot of strange stories coming out of our neck of the woods lately, aren't there?" Sherlock said, arching his own neck slightly to see where her eyes went.

"Always been a lot of blood spilled in those hills," she said. "Do you know the old song this makes me think of?

"Possibly."

"I want to try a more traditional sound next time. Not that I don't love what I do now," she said, and deigned to flash John a smile.

"'I Misbehave' was real good too," John said lamely.

Irene lowered her lashes and gave him a patronizing little nod. "I just love the old songs so much. Sometimes death is just as interesting as sex, don't you think?" She said it like it was a surprising idea.

"Yes, I agree," Sherlock said, his voice full of volumes of iconic understatement that almost made John happy, because John was the only other person in the room who'd remember just how much more attention Sherlock paid to dead women than to living ones. "But I was under the impression that most of those old ballads merely tell and retell endless permutations of the most basic crimes of passion."

"They do, they do," Irene said, moving closer to him. "It's a timeless theme. Universal. _Almost_ everyone can relate to them. This one's special though. I'm definitely going to record it for the new album. I'll sing it tonight, too. You must know it. 'There were two sisters of County Clare / Oh, the wind and the rain . . . ' So one sister pushes the other in the river to drown because they both want the same man. And in some versions, that man sees the dead girl lying there washed up on the riverbank, and he don't care at all. In one version, he even steals back her gold ring."

"Charming."

"Realistic. Every woman knows a man who'd do that. But then in my favorite versions, it gets really interesting . . . "

She sang. _Holy angels, what a voice,_ John thought. It wasn't _entirely_ the same voice that she used for the sultry honky-tonk stuff. It was recognizably the same singer, but she was showing another side and using a whole other dimension: the storyteller from the hills, the mourner, the Fate. It was high and lonesome and a little bit broken but proud, and it raised goosebumps on John's skin in a reaction as instinctive as blinking.

_Down the banks came a fiddler fair_  
 _Oh, the wind and rain_  
 _And found her bones just a-lyin' there  
_ _Oh, the dreadful wind and rain_

It was a musician's tale from then on – loving descriptions of breastbone, fingerbones, wristbones, nose, and hair, assembled lovingly into a grotesque artifact that was supposed to be able to _sing._

_And the only tune that fiddle would play  
Was oh, the dreadful wind and rain_

"So it only plays the song it's in," Irene said triumphantly, as if she'd written it herself. "And it names the sister as the killer if you know the song. Isn't that clever?"

"Yes, clever," Sherlock said. "But false in this case, because the sister _wasn't_ the killer."

John winced. First off, Sherlock was simply going to have to learn to keep that sharp tongue still, or he'd regret it someday. He also knew that while he might not like Irene very much personally, he was inevitably going to buy that damned album.

Irene's subtly painted eyebrows, meanwhile, had risen sharply. "Ah, so there _is_ a story that's fresh and new. And the fiddle too, I saw you looking at it. Do you play? Never mind, of course you do. I saw the way you studied the bridge and the hair on the bow. Do you think you could play that one? Get it to sing a different tune?"

"I'm certain it's completely unplayable," Sherlock said. "The stringing is atrocious, the nut and tuning pegs are completely non-functional, and human hair is too fine to absorb rosin the way horsehair does."

"Well, I suppose you'll never know . . . " She favored Sherlock with a considering look. "Funny thing about legends, though, they aren't just old. People keep making up new ones. I heard one about a strange man who lives in a big old house, knows way too much about other people's business. Maybe he's like an old-time root doctor. Maybe he has the Sight, I've heard. A lot of the old Scots and Irish families have stories about that. Or maybe it's from the Devil. You never know."

"I certainly wouldn't know," Sherlock said carefully. 

John would really have liked to be able to shake that feeling that Sherlock and Irene were having three conversations at once, not just one. But he couldn't.

"Some people say a man with that gift is rare; it's usually women who have it. Some say if there is a man, at least he ought to be old and ugly – but the one up _there_ is young and handsome. And some other people say they've heard ghostly fiddle music out in the woods late at night, over round the Mt. Musgrave area. You heard anything like that?"

"No one's ever told me any such tale," Sherlock said.

"No, I s'pose they wouldn't," Irene said with a feline smile. "Still, I know it's real pretty country up there. I'd love to pay you a visit sometime."

"Well, give me fair warning and you'd be welcome," Sherlock said, at last finally moving towards the door. 

And then John saw Sherlock's eyes returning the favors Irene had been bestowing all night, running up and down her body with a little smile.

"Goodnight, Irene," Sherlock said, his voice sounding low and hungry.

"Will you see me in your dreams?" she purred.

He just laughed. Softly. Smiling at her. "You're not exclusively – "

"Oh no, I've driven on both sides of the road for sure. I thought I was done with that, though. Now I'm not so sure."

"You make exceptions," Sherlock said with a droll smile.

"Honey, I would bang you like a screen door in a hurricane."

John wondered exactly what the fuck he was supposed to do in this situation, but he reckoned the best thing to do was to get the hell out, never mind if it looked like he was just following Sherlock once again. At least this time they seemed to have a common goal.

And there was a different kind of look on Sherlock's face at the very second they were safely out the door. Amazing. John had only known Sherlock for a few days, and he already knew that that was Sherlock's Information Orgasm face, which was completely intellectual and almost childlike in its excitement and had nothing to do with _anything_ going on below the neck.

For some reason, that lifted John's mood dramatically.

So did what occurred to him once they'd gotten clear of the mind-altering haze of Irene's perfume. "Ribcage, nose, fingerbones, hair, ulna – those were the same parts missing from Hannah Hartman's body!"

"Very good, John, I knew you'd get there eventually."

"That's – really demented, if they're the same ones, I mean . . . "

"Maybe, maybe," Sherlock said, completely distracted and oblivious.

*******

John had hoped to persuade Sherlock to sit down in the restaurant for a proper meal before Irene's concert, but Sherlock had simply shut himself up in his bedroom in their suite, making no sound but the soft creak of his feet pacing the old floorboards. John just resigned himself to a room-service hamburger that didn't come anywhere close to justifying its price tag, even though he knew he wasn't the one paying for it.

Throughout Irene's whole performance, John felt stiff and pinned like a butterfly, frozen in between the well-dressed patrons, Sherlock's preoccupation, and Irene's presence, effective even from the stage with several rows in between them.

It wasn't just her voice. It was the way that voice seemed to come from her entire body and turn her into a living conduit while her backing musicians served her like a queen at court.

_I'm the woman who beat you_  
 _And you don't even try to hide it,_  
 _I'm the woman who beat you  
_ _And we both know you liked it._

_Oh Christ,_ John thought, when Irene's eye contact with Sherlock didn't make John any less uncomfortable when she was yards away. 

Sherlock was still as a snake, one hand resting on his thigh and the other holding fingers at his lips, unconsciously. 

John had a sudden urge to . . . turn red and fidget himself right up the aisle and out the door, because that was an urge that did not need to ever see the light of day, even in the privacy of his mind. But did he really have any privacy even there anymore, whenever Sherlock was within a mile of him?

He was unaccountably grateful when Irene's set switched gears away from sex and towards murder. That was a much more comfortable subject.

"I want to do some songs from the new album I'm working on, the old murder ballads, and I want to bring 'em into the modern era. This song isn't that old, though, this was written just about 15 years ago and sounds as timeless as the sad old songs our ancestors brought over from the British Isles. This was a hit for Lefty Frizzell and Johnny Cash, and I want to make it a hit for me too, this is 'Long Black Veil'"

And she was holding the black dress over her body, and she put the dark veil over her face, and she looked like a gloomy ghost there in the dim stage light, as she sang. " _Ten years ago, on a cold dark night . . ._ "

She never overdid it on the props, though. She tugged at the noose a little during "Rose Conley," she stepped on the bloody stone for "Knoxville Girl" and then backed away as if in fear, and for "The Wind and the Rain," she brought over her fiddler (who was playing a conventional wooden one, thank god), who looked at it in mock terror while the audience gave an appreciative gasp.

She didn't need any of that. Her voice alone was enough to bring out the undercurrents of grief and terror in all these tales of lonely deaths in the mountains, victims who died uncomprehending and killers who killed sometimes out of passion and sometimes just for fun.

John glanced over at Sherlock, to see if any of this was having any effect on him. It was impossible to tell what was going on behind that impassive face – well, there was the occasional wince and eyeroll that told John only that Sherlock wasn't impressed with the fiddle player. Was that tape-recorder mind capturing every detail of beating, poisoning, drowning, hanging, shooting, stabbing, dismembering, et cetera, every bit of twisted motive: lust fulfilled, lust denied? Or was it a million miles away, focusing on something else entirely?

When the concert was barely over, John found himself hustled quickly back to their suite, an iron grip on his elbow for just a moment before Sherlock's stony stillness changed to a neurotic flurry.

"So close. _So_ close. A ritualistic nature, then. But why? If I knew why, I'd know who . . . "

Nothing he said made sense to John, and he was sure that it wasn't supposed to. Only once did Sherlock even seem to be addressing him at all, and that was only to say, "Should have brought my fiddle. It would help me think. John. Why didn't you remind me to bring it? You should've known I'd need it."

"Until tonight, I didn't even know you had one!"

"Oh, you're hopeless," Sherlock said, and flounced into his room, leaving John wondering what the hell he was doing 50 miles from home with such a rampant asshole.

There was a minibar in the suite, thankfully, so John poured himself the stiff drink of bourbon he knew for sure _both_ the Holmes brothers owed him.

That and exhaustion helped grant him the grace of sleep. It was interrupted once during the night. John's soldier's instincts tore awake at the sound of footsteps and doors, until he realized it had to be Sherlock. Leaving? Abandoning him again?

He opened his door a crack, just enough to see that the parlor of their suite still had a healthy litter of Sherlock's possessions. Other worries could wait, at least he would probably still have a ride home.

*******

John was awakened by the sound of the shower running, groaned and rolled over on the bed to work out the impending crick in his neck. The wide expanse of expensive sheets and decidedly not twin mattress made him feel deliciously decadent in a way that he hadn't felt in years. He dozed between sleep and dreaming for some time before he was jolted into wakefulness once again by the sound of the shower turning off, of someone bumping around in their shared bathroom, running the faucet for a moment and the clatter of indeterminate bathroom objects that persisted until John was fully awake. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes while a door clicked shut, and it was only at this point that he remembered Sherlock was that someone who would've been in there. It was strange the way dreams neglected random facets of reality even after they'd ended.

A luxurious bed was one thing, but John didn't feel quite right about using the little soaps and shampoos in the bathroom. They'd – well, Sherlock or perhaps his brother had – paid for it, he supposed, but it still felt like imposing on someone's hospitality, to leave puddles and depleted hot water and the evidence of various morning rituals in someone else's bathroom.

John could do with a shave though, just to ensure he didn't look completely out of place in such a dauntingly Monte Carlo meets Gone with the Wind establishment.

He trudged into the bathroom, and the lingering steam of the shower perfectly expressed his current mental state, fuzzy and warm and stagnant. He stepped directly into a puddle, pushed towels and toothbrushes aside and let the lukewarm water run while he rummaged around for his razor.

Halfway thorough shaving with too-flowery hotel shaving cream, it occurred to him that the Greenbrier staff hadn't thought it necessary to supply their guests with the accompanying too-flowery hotel aftershave. He ducked for a minute to see if there was any in the cabinet under the sink, then stood up again.

Sherlock, in the mirror. He wasn't exactly clothed. He didn't say anything, either, just leaned around John to grab something. John didn't know or care what it was because Sherlock's hair was dripping wet and it dripped right onto John's neck and John almost cut himself with the razor that had stopped stupidly halfway across his cheek.

"Morning, John," Sherlock yawned, like this was all perfectly normal. He was radiating heat even more effectively than John's sad little space heater in his sad little trailer.

Sherlock was more, well, _defined_ than John had anticipated. Not that he'd anticipated things about how defined Sherlock's lean sinewy arms might or might not look. He just seemed awfully scrawny, so of course it was a bit surprising to see muscle and quiet strength and relaxed confident shoulders. Sherlock seemed anything but scrawny, right now. Modesty kept intact by nothing more than a cream colored towel with an elaborate insignia in the corner, damp pale skin and a light dusting of hair across his chest and his eyelashes clumped together with wet when John turned too fast and met Sherlock's eyes. 

Sherlock smelled like too-flowery hotel shampoo, glanced at random points on John's face and body before taking the razor from John's clenched hand with a miniscule smile and placing it gingerly on the countertop.

"Careful," Sherlock said, then left as quickly as he'd come.

John stared at himself in the mirror, the interrupted streak of visible skin on his left cheek that Sherlock was responsible for. The next time John shaved and reached this point he'd remember Sherlock's casual disregard for propriety and laugh about it. Probably.

*******

Then came that sickening moment when John really did think he'd been left behind, and he packed up his things in a furious frenzy – only to find that hearse waiting in the parking lot. Sherlock was sitting on the lip of the rear hatch, studying something in a very old-fashioned microscope and swearing in a whisper as soon as he realized it wasn't going to be powerful enough to tell him what he wanted to know nownownow.

"Did you sleep?" John asked.

"Not much. Just a little. Too much on my mind."

"Did you eat?"

"No, why would I do that now? I'm _busy."_

"I might have liked to."

"Go ahead."

"You want to leave."

"I want to get back to work. That's all I want. So I want to get back to Stanger. NOW. I can't stand this place. I can't stand being away from my things. I can't stand having to think about ANYTHING else. I can't THINK, and if I can't think I can't _breathe,_ and . . ."

"You're insane," John said. "You're nuts. You're crazy as a shithouse rat, and if you haven't slept or eaten, then I'm driving!"

"FINE," Sherlock snarled, and hurled his lanky self into the back of the hearse, crashing through the mess of boxes and books and coats and old papers and the rifle and the toolbox and the CB radio and God knew what else, stretching himself straight out on his back and folding his hands on his chest like he was waiting for a coffin to form itself around him.

So that was how John came to find himself driving an old hearse with a silent but living passenger down some of West Virginia's finest treacherous roads, with a head full of bad thoughts.

 _Try the radio,_ he finally decided.

Click. Static.

"And they have not the blood of the Lamb upon them, so they shall have their OWN blood upon them in the Day of the Judgment – "

_Oh fuck no._

Country music. Wouldn't have been so bad except it happened to be a familiar voice.

_One leg in his bed and one foot in the grave_  
 _They say it was stupid, but I say I was brave_  
 _I've had a poet and a killer and a knight and a knave  
_ _And I know what I know because I misbehave . . ._

"TURN IT OFF," came a muffled bellow through the glass window. Why did hearses have those, anyway? Did the occupants frequently want to stop to piss or get a cup of coffee on the way? Were they expected to tip the driver?

So His Majesty wanted silence. He'd get it too, even though it was the last thing John wanted, because in silence came no refuge from John's own agitated mind.

 _Sherlock, Sherlock, what have you done?_ went his song-addled brain, _Tell me, where did you sleep last night?_

_In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines . . ._

No doubt Sherlock had been sneaking, deducing, cutting deals. He couldn't have gone far, the things left behind in the suite included his coat. What was he doing? Getting his brother off his back, somehow – Mycroft had been conspicuous by his absence in the morning, that was true, there was nothing to confront but an impersonal thank-you card on fancy paper, with a slight whiff of _eau de fuckyou._ And yes, it was very possible that Sherlock did go to visit Irene, and if then . . .

Being utterly honest with himself, as he really preferred not to be at the moment, John had to admit the idea filled him with . . . not jealousy exactly, but envy. Which would have been almost fine – except that he was envying the _wrong person._

Only 30 miles left to go. _Jesus take the wheel._

 


	7. Dig My Grave With a Silver Spade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's relationship gets deeper--about six feet deeper.

After a change of drivers at John's driveway, he'd been almost unceremoniously thrown out of the hearse as it moved up the hill in a spray of gravel, Sherlock having gone from catatonic to manic in .01 seconds.

John found that his trailer seemed even smaller than he'd left it. He tossed his overnight bag down on this sad little couch, noting that his clean-clothing supply was approaching critical. Nothing was going to come easy these days, was it?

He stormed out of the door and looked at his pickup truck. He itched to _move_. Half a tank left, last he remembered. Even with a gas shortage on, couldn't he treat himself a little? He was glad Sherlock hadn't taken him up on his half-assed offer to drive all the way to White Sulphur Springs.

When he was young and his driver's license was new and so was the world, God, how John had loved to drive. That sense of freedom all boundless and shining, the backs of the mountains and the branches of the trees whirling past, the tires hugging the rolling and twisting roads, it felt like riding some giant, graceful sea serpent. He didn't expect to get much of that back right now, but his accelerator foot was twitching nonetheless. Well, why not? In the guise of an errand, he tossed a bag of laundry into the truck and told himself he'd go to the laundromat. Later.

Leaving Route 221 behind felt like a weight off his back, and the wider two-lane road welcomed him, the one that went through the heart of downtown Stanger and beyond, aiming southwest.

One of Main Street's four stoplights was out of commission, so John pretended its perpetual green color was sincere.

So far so good. The heavy gray November clouds were even deigning to let a little blue and gold shine through, and the cold wasn't too bad, and so John even rolled the window down a little to let in the smell of wood smoke and leaf mold and moss and coal dust and truck exhaust. 

John remembered these roads better than he thought he would, but they were still full of surprises since it had been so long. Unsurprising, though, was the way his subconscious mind tended to turn him; no matter where he thought he wanted to go (and he had no opinion on the matter really), his treacherous steering hands always turned toward that particular the ruined mountainside on the very edge of the county; just a statistic, another horrific example of the very real consequences of that abstract legalese broad-form deed. The land that should have been his, that was barely even still land at all.

John had to wonder where the owner of the company lived. New York? Philadelphia? Washington? London? Mars? Certainly nowhere near here. No one would do this to a place they actually had to look at every day, where they had to try to grow things and drink the water.

Some sad dregs of woods remained near the foot of the decapitated hill, below where the cranes and bulldozers worked and the heavy chain-link fences sported terrifying arrays of KEEP OUTS and WARNINGS, as if the toxic dust clouds and the blasts of dynamite and roaring rock falls weren't forbidding enough.

John actually got out of the truck this time and approached the edge of the glade, where he could still see the grown-over ghost of a driveway and a stubborn clump of old rhododendrons, grown together in that way that formed dark, tangled caves, irresistible to the sort of child John had been. He'd buried a dead bird in one of them once, marked it with a little black stone. What were the odds that he'd know it if he saw it again? Not good.

He took a short stroll up the faded-out old driveway. If he was still that little boy, he could pretend it was an Indian trail or a secret path to buried treasure, promising adventure up ahead. Then again, it could also resemble one of those very real paths through the Vietnamese jungle where every step could be death. Some of the luster had gone out of those make-believe games for good, then.

He'd only just turned around to head back to his truck when he heard a twig snap, and froze dead still, every instinct yelling to find cover.

Nothing. Who or what could be out there? Probably just some animal. Hunters, maybe. Should he have worn blaze orange? Probably. 

Or maybe what he needed was _more_ camouflage, not less.

John's hands had gone dead still, and his breathing dead silent.

Ridiculous. He started to hum an aimless little tune to convince himself of his lack of fear, that every hair on the back of his neck standing up meant nothing at all.

Still, just on the off chance that it _wasn't_ some innocent woodland creature, John thought it was best that he not telegraph his sudden fear. So he forced himself to amble. To meander. To look at the ruined ridgetop with a leisurely sadness, and above all to put his hand nowhere near the place where his concealed pistol rested.

Slowly, calmly, listening intently, he drifted towards his pickup truck, and climbed in. He pulled slowly out of his impromptu parking spot on the shoulder of the road, and he turned on the radio. Miraculously, there was a rock 'n' roll station unmarred by mountain static.

_Rape, murder, it's just a shot away  
It's just a shot away, yeah_

Okay, maybe that hadn't been the best idea. John turned the radio slowly down but not off, not at first, as he eased out onto the two-lane blacktop.

Respectable moderate speed at first, until the road started to curl and twist. John paused for a moment and slowed at a bend with a break in the trees, looking two switchbacks above.

Yes. A flash of metal in the dim late sun.

The whole murder business was making him paranoid, John thought. It was just paranoia. Had to be. And yet. He'd been to war, and he'd come back home again, damaged but alive. Some of that was dumb luck, and some of that was the work of a medic who'd been there when he couldn't be, and maybe some of that was fate or God – but still. John also knew damn well a big part of that was the fact that he'd learned to trust that particular kind of _twinge._

In the jungle, on foot, he'd have some idea how to dodge. Ironically, on his home turf in good American steel, he wasn't quite so sure. It was a similar instinct, though. Roll slow. Don't use the signals. Keep going like you have all the time in the world. Wait til there's one good blind turn, when the trees and kudzu still have some leaves, and you happen to see a little dirt road, and that's when you gun it, but only enough to get out of sight. Then meander slowly and take the smallest fork road you see, so slow as to be silent.

Know where your gun is. Lay it out on the passenger seat, nice and handy, just in case they don't lay off. If they keep following, know when the next straightaway is where you can speed up fast. If they follow you at high speed, then that's when you need to start thinking about how to shoot and drive at the same time. If they don't, if they go easy behind you, then lead them along til dark, and know where the next steep up-down fork is, and that's when you go fast and down and make them hit the median sideways (if they're running fast), and if not, to take the littlest fork and cut headlights.

 _Oh yes,_ John thought, knuckles white on the steering wheel, _I guess the instincts do translate, don't they?_

Up above, through the brown brush, he could see it. Dark blue pickup truck, distinctive dent in the side. He remembered it from the parking lot at the dance, but it could still be almost anyone.

Drawing a deep breath, he continued on a leisurely way down the road. If he was being followed, his pursuers were hanging back just enough to avoid showing up in his rearview mirror. 

Alright, well, if they wanted a slow-motion chase, he was up for it. He gunned it just a little until they reached the nearest junction, and he swung the wheel hard, turning down a little barely-marked access road that he knew looped back to the main road about half a mile down. 

Slowly, he crept along, listening for tires behind him. They were none, and from his vantage point he watched the truck blow past on the main road without pausing.

Either they weren't trying that hard, or they already knew what they wanted to know, or they hadn't been following him at all.

John allowed himself a sigh of relief, but the creepy feeling never fully dispersed. _This place is cursed now,_ he thought. _There is something here that doesn't like me. Not one bit._

Well, that wasn't an entirely bad thing, if it made the place where he actually lived feel a little more like home. 

He decided to sit back and allow some time to make sure his shadow was really gone. He turned off the radio, suddenly too loud without the grind of wheels to contend with. He hadn't brought anything to read, and found that despite all the old memories and the anger and the fear, the new center of gravity of thoughts, the Rome all roads in his mind led to, was Sherlock Holmes. Who could have told him in an instant who those people were, and what they wanted, and possibly what to do about it. Who would have said so in an assured, quick, deep voice, probably thrown in a mild insult or two, and still left John wanting more.

That was the problem, wasn't it? Sherlock was just _too much_ – too smart, too demanding, too intense, too _present_ . . . and no matter how much too much he was, John still wanted more.

John counted to ten slowly, trying to focus only on numbers and breathing and the brusque conversations of crows in the woods around him. 

He took out his stash of chew to relax a bit but after the initial wash of nicotine he of course remembered that _Sherlock_ had gotten it for him and that was it, then – Sherlock was lodged forever in his thoughts, and he might as well get used to it.

He took a different route home, grateful for the old county map in his glove compartment.  
When he reached Route 221, he didn't stop at his own trailer. Still a little creeped out, he kept going until he saw Mrs. Hudson out in her yard. He was horrified to see her with a rake in her hand sweeping leaves, and he pulled up in her driveway and leapt out quickly.

"Oh no, ma'am, you're not doing that. Not while I'm around."

"You're so kind, but really . . . "

"Nope," John said, taking the rake.

"Well, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well," John said, looking down a little. It wasn't a huge favor, really, but still, to actually ask . . . wasn't easy for him. Never had been. "You did say you had that washer-dryer . . . "

Mrs. Hudson brightened up to a ridiculous degree. "Oh, I'd be _delighted._ That laundromat in town is such a sad place, ain't it? Seems there's always somebody in there who's blind drunk and just watchin' the clothes go round all day like there's nothin' else to do in life."

 _That could have been me,_ John thought.

He picked up the bag of laundry from his truck and followed her into the clean, cheerful house. Still smelled good, another stew pot simmering slowly and a pan of cornbread browning on the stovetop. "You do love to cook, don't you?" John said.

"It's relaxing," she said. Her face took on a serious note. "I lived through the Depression, you know. I just feel good knowing that I have enough for myself and enough to share too."

"Sure is a blessing, ain't it?" John said as she showed him how to work the shiny new appliances. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you? After I rake your leaves?" He glanced at the woodstove. "You don't have much firewood in here right now."

"Well, there is a whole cord out by the garage. I wouldn't mind having some of it moved in here, if you don't mind."

"I'm on it!" John said happily. And he was. There was nothing like a little spot of manly yard work in the crisp and cool afternoon, wan sun on his face and chill wind on his head, watching his breath rise up in steam and staring to sweat a little warmly under his coat as he brought in armload after armload of fresh-smelling firewood, through the back door to pile by her wood heating stove, and a little by the fireplace in the living room.

"And so did you go to the dance like I insisted?" she said with a smile in her voice.

"I sure did. Good idea. Did me good to get out."

"And did you meet anyone special?"

"I met a lot of people," he said wryly. "Probably not in the way you were thinkin' of, though."

John almost dropped a pine quarter-log on his foot when he heard her front door take a pounding. With a little smile, she pushed by him into the entry way to get it.

John heard her voice go high and happy as she cried out, "Oh _Sherlock,_ hello!" and his stomach did an odd little flip. He turned around to see Mrs. Hudson enfolded in Sherlock's arms and his dark curly head bent to kiss her cheek. The smile he gave her as he gently squeezed her petite shoulders was the most heart-meltingly _normal_ thing John had yet seen him do. "And how are you doing, stranger?" she said to him as she firmly strong-armed him into the kitchen, smiling over her shoulder at John.

"Oh, I can't stop and visit now," Sherlock said, eyes bright and voice surging. "I'm on the trail of . . . "

"A case, is it?" Damned if she didn't look almost as excited as he did. "Is it . . . the murders?"

"Yes!"

"You shouldn't be so happy about it. It isn't decent. I know, I know, you don't care about decent, the game is on. I know you!"

"Well, I intend to make them stop," Sherlock said. "If that makes you feel any better about it."

"If anyone can, it's you."

Slick as anything, while Sherlock was distracted with talking, Mrs. Hudson took one of his hands, turned the palm up, and slapped a wedge of warm cornbread into it. "Don't you dare set that down," she said. "Only way you can get rid of it's to eat it."

Sherlock laughed, and devoured half of it one bite. John boggled, and was also relieved to have evidence that Sherlock was not, in fact, a supernatural being.

"I really came to get John here," Sherlock said, mouth still full. "Hope you don't mind. He's been a great help so far."

"I have?" John asked, startled and pleased beyond all reason.

"I'm so glad you know each other," Mrs. Hudson said. "Being neighbors and all."

"We met at the dance, as it happens," Sherlock said. "I bet you're surprised I went."

"You surprise me so much you can't surprise me at all," she said, and she _winked_ at John with such an unmistakable I-told-you-so she might as well have hired a plane to skywrite it. _Oh. Right. It's not like that,_ John thought frantically.

"I can't go right now," John told Sherlock. "I just put laundry in."

"Oh, don't worry about that honey, I'll take care of that for you. Just this once. I know it's important."

 _God damn it. She was going to touch his underwear._ "That ain't right. You're not my housekeeper."

"Of course not. I'm your neighbor and that's better. Now go catch yourselves a murderer."

Sherlock had finished the cornbread, or at least there was no trace of it but two golden crumbs on his scarf. It was John who accepted the heavy old-fashioned lunchbox she wouldn't let them leave without.

Sherlock all but flew down the porch to the driveway where the hearse waited with his long coat and John right behind him.

"Where are we going now?"

"Graveyards. Old ones," Sherlock said, half-distracted. "The bones in the fiddle are human, female, and young, but they aren't Hannah's. I found soil traces full of mast from _Castanea dentata._ Allowing for downward sinkage of topsoil, those bones had to have been buried for no less than 30 years."

"Dentata what?"

"American Chestnut. Once the dominant tree in the region, virtually wiped out by an imported blight decades ago."

"I know what a chestnut is and what happened to them. So they're old, so why are we going . . . "

"I want to know where they came from. Theories need testing."

"There's not much light left, where are we . . . ?"

Sherlock gestured over his shoulder, and John peered through the window into the hearse's back as they pulled out of the driveway and down towards 221's only exit. John groaned with a horrified little sense of resignation.

Gloves. Sample bags. Two old-fashioned coal miner's helmets with the lamps on them. And shovels. 

_Just breathe,_ John told himself. _It'll only get weirder from here._ "Do you have a specific graveyard in mind? 'Cause, you know, every family used to have their own on their own land, and every church too. There've gotta be hundreds just in this one county."

"I've got it narrowed down to a short likely list," Sherlock said with a cool certainty.

"So you really want to go digging up graves."

"Not necessarily. More likely we'll find some graves that have already been dug recently. One, at least, for sure."

"Okay," John said. "Because, you know, I do have to draw the line somewhere, and I'm gonna put it right about there for now."

"Sentiment or superstition?"

"Respect."

The sound Sherlock made might have been a chuckle, but it wasn't especially derisive, so John let his hackles lie. They'd probably get enough exercise soon enough.

The main two-lane road had little to offer them; just half a mile down was the dreary little road Sherlock had in mind, with its dry brown grass overhanging its edges and deep ruts carved in it by seasonal floods. The road curved and twisted as it climbed.

"Mind if I eat?" John asked, reaching for the lunchbox.

"No," Sherlock said as he struggled a little with the gear shift.

"I noticed this thing was four-wheel-drive," John said. "How the hell did you manage that?"

"I didn't. But there was a body-shop man in Hinton who wanted to repay a favor."

"A crime you solved?"

"Both one I solved and one I chose not to."

John had no idea how Sherlock could resist the scent of the pork-and-beans and cornbread Mrs. Hudson had packed. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure Sherlock was resisting entirely, judging by the twitch of his nose and the glance of his eyes. John helped himself with the little tin spoon, and had a wild mental image of leaning that spoon over to feed Sherlock like a child while the mad genius continued to force the hearse to push itself up that road unfit for man or beast.

But the road was starting to level off a little, and they found themselves on a relatively flat level of ground – once cleared for a yard, but now overgrown in weedy little scrub trees, first level of the forest taking its own back. A wooden frame house was nearly completely collapsed, sprawled over in a tangle of warped boards and consuming vines. There was still a little bit of daylight left, though that clearly would have to be dearly spent. 

Once they cleared the relatively bare patch that had once been the garden and climbed the little rise to the place where a rusted fence protected a cluster of rough stones, Sherlock immediately leaped the low gate and went down on his hands and knees among the homemade grave-markers, pushing aside years of weeds and leaves to get at the soil underneath.

John would have gladly helped if he'd had the faintest _clue_ what to look for. Instead he just climbed the fence much more carefully than Sherlock had, and stood around watching.

"This isn't the one," Sherlock said. "Completely undisturbed. That narrows it down a little." He didn't look too dismayed, so it probably didn't narrow it down enough for John's liking.

When they were driving back down the terrifying little cattle trail, Sherlock presented John with paper covered in scrawls and scribbles. On the back was a fairly convincing topographical map with locations of likely boneyards marked. 

The next one was a good seven miles away, on roads that didn't seem to improve much. Sherlock deigned to take one bite of cornbread and chew it like a cow the whole way, saying nothing at all, but at one point making a rather complicated gesture with both his hands that left the steering wheel bereft for so long John panicked and reached over to take it. Quick as a striking snake, Sherlock caught his wrist. "I'm _fine._ " 

"Didn't say you weren't," John said, looking down at his hand trapped in that relentless grip. And did Sherlock's fingers slide unnecessarily down his arm as they released him?

The road ahead could hardly even be called that anymore; grey, mostly-bare tree limbs pressed in over them as the daylight faded to a thin strip of orange at the top of the ridge, and in among the trees deep twilight was setting in. "I should have known this was the one," Sherlock muttered. "Had to be. Waste of time."

"There's hardly any light left."

"That's all right." And then the road was all but dead, a mere double footpath of aged wheel ruts. Young fast-growing trees had started to take over and render it all but impassable. "We'll have to walk the rest of the way."

"Right."

They got out, and Sherlock opened the back of the hearse. Someday, John thought, he was going to sneak in and find out exactly what was in that fascinating pile. But right now, it was clearly all about the shovels and the sacks of little collecting jars, and those damn coal miner's helmets.

John took the one he was handed and looked at it with great misgivings. He'd never been in a coal mine, but dammit, he'd known a shitload of men who'd spent most of their lives there, and had those lives broken and shortened by it – the black lung, the silicosis, the asthma, the deforming back strains and limb breakages, the repetitive strain injuries, the skin abraded and ruined and never completely clean again. And the ones who'd died – every month you heard about it, another handful of men gone not too far away. Could have been your brother, your cousin, your friend. For a lot of people John knew, it was. And that didn't even count the decades of picket line ambushes and sabotage and murders, brother turning on brother and flames of class and race hatred stoked by strikebreaking and hunger. 

Some fathers wanted their sons to take after them. And other fathers would do anything to keep their sons out of that, including joining the army. Being a miner didn't take any less courage than being a soldier, and the odds weren't necessarily any better. It was going to feel to John like putting on a uniform he hadn't earned.

At least John took a little comfort in how ridiculous Sherlock looked wearing one, sighing with impatience and clearly thinking of it as nothing more than a flashlight that kept his hands free.

Seeing no alternative, John put it on and was unnerved by how well it fit. "Hi-ho," he said, and picked up a shovel.

The path through the woods was slow-going, full of lumpy roots and grasping briars, hard to see in the waning light. Second-growth woods. Very little evidence of recent human presence. Even the path itself seemed as much a product of wishful thinking as a concrete reality.

But suddenly the trees gave way on a hillside, granting a view of the shallow valley below. Two long-abandoned houses, a wood-frame and a log cabin, slowly sank into the earth, twined in vines.

At their feet stretched a graveyard, weedy and covered in fallen leaves. A handful of huge trees had been spared the logging here, and they stood stern and forbidding and protective among the tombstones. There was a massive fallen log just in front of them, finally giving in to rot. _Chestnut, probably,_ John thought. _Maybe the same one that's got its stuff all over those old bones._

Sherlock's long legs cleared the log easily, but John had more of a climb.

Sherlock had turned on the little lightbulb over his forehead like a visible metaphor, the better to study the places where some brown dead leaves might not be identical to their millions of relatives. He never stumbled on the uneven ground, never shivered at the places where the earth had sunk inward towards an occupant, never paused to be distracted by the saddest, smallest stones that marked babies who didn't live long enough to get a name.

Most of the stones were unreadable now, moss and lichens digging into their carvings, acid rain washing away white limestone. Less than half the stones were store-bought, and most of the crude etching hadn't been more than barely legible to begin with.

John knew how most of them went anyhow, and he knew a lot of what they didn't say. All ages, at any old time. Smallpox, yellow fever, diphtheria, tuberculosis, cholera, scarlet fever, rubella, meningitis, influenza, dysentery, emphysema, cancer, rheumatic fever, pneumonia. Mining, logging, farming, hunting, construction accidents. Drownings, falls, hypothermia, snakebite. Complications related to pregnancy and childbirth, biggest killer of women in their teens and twenties in those days. Fifteen years old, that one, and already with two tiny graves beside hers.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, turning around to face him and shining his helmet light directly into John's eyes, blinding him.

"Ow, don't," John said, whirling around and doing the same thing to Sherlock. _We should have practiced this,_ he thought.

"Here," Sherlock said, pointing down. "They didn't do a bad job of covering it. I'm almost impressed. But this is it, right here!" He reached out for one of the shovels John was holding, keeping his light averted this time.

"I thought you heard me say I wasn't gonna dig up any graves."

"If I'm right, this one was already been dug up and almost half the occupant isn't home anymore. And I know I'm right."

"Well, if you _know_ you're right . . . "

"Do you trust me?"

"That's a loaded question," John said. _The answer to that could go a few different ways._ "Okay, on this, yeah."

"You _dig?_ "

Oh God, Sherlock was making a joke. "Yeah, man. I can _dig_ it."

So they did. Carefully at first and then with cardiovascular vigor.

A few minutes in, John was beginning to be skeptical of Sherlock's utter conviction that this soil had been disturbed in the last decade. It seemed very settled, packed, and slightly frozen to him. But he kept going.

Sherlock paused for a moment, looking down at the tangle of roots in the deep black loam. He squinted for a moment at the alignment of the rough slate slabs, and made a disgruntled sound. 

"Oh really now," he said, apropos of apparently nothing but obviously something, and kicked leaves up from a spot about four feet to the left and further down the hillside. "So clever it comes all the way around again to stupid," he said.

"So that _wasn't_ the exact spot."

"Not exactly, no. Very close."

John chuckled a little and started digging near him. 

"I _did_ manage to narrow it down to here out of the whole county, you know," Sherlock grumbled.

"We'll see. Keep digging." John could already tell Sherlock was probably right, though. It was going a lot more easily here than it should. In what seemed like very little time, the hole grew wider and deeper and grave-shaped, and then dirt begin to fall in and shuffle of its own accord.

"Faster. Deeper," Sherlock gasped, panting with exertion and eagerness. "We have to get _deeper._ "

"Trying," John grunted, sweat loosening his grip.

They were both sweaty and filthy, coats long abandoned due to surging body heat even in the chill of the night.

With a frustrated sound, Sherlock pulled off one of his gloves with his teeth, flashing like his eyes in the dim light, and reached his hand deep into the freshly dug-up grave dirt. He rolled soil around in his fingers, sniffed it, and to John's horror, actually _licked_ a sampling from the palm of his hand. John's hand clenched around the handle of the shovel.

"Deeper," Sherlock repeated. "This isn't a match yet. Too recent. Close, though. So close." 

Right. He was sticking to his story, then. John kept digging, and Sherlock kept digging, and then it happened. John's shovel hit wood, and he jumped, horrified. Not quite six feet down, more like five and change, down in the pit, there were pieces of an old coffin that was shattered and broken, and his helmet light gleamed off something off-white that just had to be carelessly scattered bone.

"I _knew_ it," Sherlock said in unseemly triumph as their shovels worked double-time. 

Then he froze, solid and still, even the steam of his breath going dark. John mirrored him. He'd heard it too.

It wasn't just a snap of a twig, it was a whole damn forest of twigs crackling, leaves rustling. Whoever it was, wasn't even trying to be quiet, and that could _not_ be good, not out here in the woods miles from a house, no one around but wildlife and the dead. John quietly shut off his helmet light and eased the heavy thing off his head, the better to hear.

They were sitting ducks. _Well, not unarmed at least,_ John thought. _At least I'm not, don't know about him, didn't ask. Stupid. That's something we ought to know about each other if we're going to keep finding ourselves in the horror-movie zone._

The noises were getting closer and sounded bolder. "Sherlock, get _down!"_ said John's ingrained civilian-protective instinct. John's voice was low and sharp, and his body lunged faster than his mind could think as they crashed together; Sherlock's shoe caught on a small granite footstone, and they both fell – far further than they'd expected, because they were falling _into_ the open grave. Sherlock's helmet went spinning away above them, and its light still burned, perfectly illuminating their position, and there was nothing to be done about it.

There was a sickening crunch as they hit – on shards of rotten coffin wood, on bits of grit and rock and ancient, broken bone, and John felt Sherlock's body bending under him in a way that had to be painful. _Right,_ John thought wildly, _people were mostly shorter back then. This grave would never fit him. It's almost too short for me._

_Almost_

They listened hard for the sound of running feet, human voices, inevitable confrontation, probably death – yes, likely, death; as murder sites go, this one could hardly be more convenient. John supposed he ought to be making peace with God. But all John's thoughts were on wildly immediate and carnal things. Like Sherlock's body beneath him, squirming to rearrange his absurdly long limbs – usually so graceful, not right now – that lean thigh crammed between his, that earthy scent of sweat and dirt and _him._

John even let out a strange little sound at the feeling of Sherlock's hand sliding under his shirt, toward the back of his jeans – at least he _hoped_ the hand was Sherlock's – and almost giggled giddily when Sherlock whipped John's pistol out of his waistband and began to carefully aim at the rectangular patch of sky above them. _So now he knows that's not my gun against his crotch, then,_ John thought, still perversely impressed with his own inappropriateness.

There were no human noises, none at all. In their near-perfect silence, though, there were footsteps of a sort, and an odd snuffling noise. Sherlock held so still and breathless he could almost have been a fitting grave-occupant but for his thrumming heart and intense heat, and John tried to match him. John couldn't slow his own heart either. Probably pounding through Sherlock's chest just as hard as Sherlock's pulse was rocking his.

John craned his neck to look up, and then he saw it. A curved line of a creature's side suggesting great size – shaggy black fur, beady eyes glowing red in the light from their abandoned helmets, a blunt snout snuffling and peering down at them. 

"Cover your ears, John," Sherlock commanded.

"Wait, don't – "

John saw that Sherlock was aiming over the lip of the grave, well away from the beast, and he did as he was told. He felt Sherlock's chest swell with a deep intake of breath, and then came the _noise._ A guttural, forceful, ridiculously loud roar, rising and falling and seeming to have more than one tone, drawing itself out into a supernaturally ragged high animal shriek, as Sherlock fired the pistol three times into empty air. 

John hadn't known human voices could do that. He was sure that they _shouldn't._ And he remembered that he'd heard it before.

The bear let out a horrified huff, and the only sounds they heard after that were those of heavy paws beating fast on the ground, and twigs and underbrush breaking, noises that rapidly got further and further away.

"What the _hell?_ "

"That's how I chase 'em away from my beehives," Sherlock said, his voice barely hoarse at all.

"Wow," John said. "Effective!"

"You thought I was going to shoot it," Sherlock said.

"For a minute, yeah. I mean, lots of guys would."

"I wouldn't, unless I absolutely had to. _Ursus americanus_ is rarely aggressive to humans. I helped to break up a poaching ring once." 

John watched Sherlock's face change for a moment in reminiscence. John's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and there was a slim line of cool blue moonlight. John smiled and started to push himself up to try to start climbing out of their grave.

There was a hand on John's spine, and another at the back of his head. Sherlock was holding John still – in the grave, on top of him. The grip of those hands was firm, but not full-strength. John could break it easily. If he wanted to.

He didn't.

John froze, and looked as deep as he could stand to into Sherlock's uncanny eyes. He could feel what might very well be about to happen. The Rubicon was right in front of him – and it was so very intelligent and aware, and hopeful.

"Does that happen to you when you feel a rush of adrenaline?" Sherlock asked quietly, a movement of his hips leaving little doubt as to what he meant by _that_. "In battle, sometimes?"

 _Oh God. Oh God._ "Um . . . wow . . . what a question. Um . . . alright sometimes yes, it just happens."

"Not uncommon," Sherlock said. "A complex cocktail of hormones flooding the nucleus accumbens, causing a cardiovascular response . . . " John's mind glazed over. He was a fucking doctor and none of this was new information, but there _was_ new information pressing against his thigh that was really fucking fascinating. A good-sized amount of new information – well, of course, that made sense, Sherlock was a tall man; big hands, big feet, therefore . . .

"Do you think that's sick?" John asked, pressing back against that hard ridge he felt in Sherlock's pants. "That . . . arousal from danger?"

"No, it's normal. But you're not in danger now," Sherlock said with an unreadable quirk to his mouth. "You never really were."

"I'm not so sure about that," John blurted. "I think maybe I am." 

John felt his head moving lower. Closer. Sherlock was reading every single movement of every muscle in his face, John knew that by now. And John knew with terrible clarity exactly what his own body language was shouting to him.

Sherlock's hand that was on the back of John's head trickled its fingertips through John's close-cut hair briefly, and then trailed down the nape of his neck.

"I . . . I'm not a homosexual," John said quietly.

"I know," Sherlock said, and kissed him.

It only took a few seconds of those soft lips against his, and then John's nerves fired up into flame. Their lips opened slightly, parted, came together again. Again and again. 

A high whimper came out of John's mouth, a deep groan came out of Sherlock's throat, and then both their mouths were slightly open and their tongues were licking each other.

Sherlock's hand tightened around John's neck and jaw to take a slight degree of control, pulling him away and drawing him back again. It was only a gentle tease, but the effect it was having on John's desire was anything but.

"Kinsey's scale is crude and limited . . . but functional in basic practice," Sherlock said, drawing back from John's mouth to use his own for what he did best. "You're not gay. Far from it. You're barely even bisexual – but you obviously _are_ to some degree, at least enough to enjoy what you're doing with me right now. I'm currently calculating that you're about a 1.41. That could be subject to change with more data."

"Please. Please stop talking. The more you talk, the more freaked out I get. Don't."

"What will you do if I stop talking?" Sherlock asked. For once, he looked sincerely invested in the answer. 

John kissed him roughly and urgently. He sucked at Sherlock's lips, he shoved his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, and he raised his body up just enough to work his hand between their bodies to squeeze that undeniable physical evidence that Sherlock had an opinion about the outcome. A sound came out of Sherlock that sounded involuntary, and that was enough for John. 

John kept doing that, squeezing and tugging in rhythm, working a little bit of finesse into it, taking every little bit he remembered of every awkward clothed handjob that had ever worked for _him_ and putting it to use.

But his – partner? Competitor? – was no slouch. What Sherlock did as a counterstrike was devastatingly effective: it was to moan and grind his cock up into John's touch, and then slide his free hand down John's back, scratching freely with his nails, pressing down on John's ass when he got to that territory, and squeezing with a claiming grip, pushing John's aching groin harder against his own.

"Do you really want me to stop talking?" Sherlock asked in a guttural sort of whisper right in John's ear, low and intimate. "I will, if you _really_ want me to."

"Fuck," John said. "Your fucking _mouth._ "

The mouth in question enclosed his earlobe and sucked. The hand on his ass slid down and pushed fingertips shamelessly between John's legs, and _pressed._

"It's not fair!" John moaned into Sherlock's ear.

"What isn't fair?"

"You can run your hands all over me, and I'm stuck lying on you . . . "

"Push yourself up then," Sherlock said softly, and then made that very difficult by biting John's neck. Electric heat surged through John's spine, and he almost resented the delicious heating swell in his cock because he knew Sherlock would feel it and it would make him smug, so the very least he could do was to use his free hand more skillfully, scrabbling at Sherlock's belt buckle.

"Oh, I am going to make you . . . "

Sherlock's voice expressed something that wasn't a word, just an animal sort of _yes_ , as his long legs fell open to the full extent that the _fucking GRAVE, what the hell is wrong with us_ would allow. John closed his eyes and groaned as his hand closed around bare flesh _holy shit, rock hard, slick already, uncut, at least seven inches, what have I done?_

If John had had any ideas of retreating into memories of resolutely straight-oh-yes-really j/o sessions that Army men will get up to with no women around (and he'd been there), Sherlock was ready to cut that off at the pass. Those fingers pressing against his perineum through his jeans never missed a beat – their touch was rough there, gentle here, creeping around the long way to find the softness of his balls and the hardness of his cock on their way back up. 

Sherlock's hand squeezing his ass was expert cruelty, as were the lewd movements of Sherlock's hips that enticed John to ride him harder, grinding between Sherlock's thighs, feeling long muscles there respond and clench, tightening and releasing around him. 

John moved into that touch and push. Shamelessly, arching his back and rolling his hips in teasing hard circles sometimes, then going back to forward thrusts, his weight lifted up just a little to give space to move his hand up and down Sherlock's cock. Which was a fairly amazing and fascinating thing, an iron column cased in velvet-soft skin.

He did this knowing full well that every time he opened his eyes, he'd meet Sherlock's, and there was a good chance that Sherlock would want to kiss him again, and then John would not be able to deny how good that was, kissing him while they moved together like this, groin to groin; chest to chest; mouth to mouth, and then he'd be stuck having to admit that this was no mere utilitarian release, it was _sex_ in its purest, finest form.

John looked down, and Sherlock's eyes were actually closed as he rode John's hand. Sherlock was overwhelmed. He was enjoying it so much. He was close to coming, _had_ to be. Fuck, his face was beautiful like that. The heat in John's own groin was nearly critical, but first he wanted, _needed_ to make Sherlock come. It wouldn't be long, he thought, not if he knew the male body as a doctor and he was pretty sure he did . . . but Sherlock still had enough awareness to try to make a challenge, so he fought one hand free to push John's hip up and away from him on one side, enough to wind fingers in around John's belt buckle and jeans fly, opening his pants enough to touch . . . 

And then those weird eyes flew open again, dilated and dark and knowing. And then Sherlock froze. And then John heard it. 

So quiet. Gravel on the bend of the road far below. The driver wasn't trying to be quiet, the car was coming fast.

"Left rear tire worn down on the inside because of the untreated driveway of the back lot at the sheriff's office," Sherlock said quickly and quietly. "It's Lestrade."

John all but wailed in frustration. "Really? Fuck, how much time do we have?"

"He's reached the end of the road," Sherlock said, handing John's pistol back to him. The cold of the metal was a shock after the heat of Sherlock's skin. "Judging by his speed, he thinks it's an emergency. He'll have to walk the path as we did, but at least one of our lights is still out there, so he can follow that lead. My estimate is four minutes at best. We need to not be in the grave when he arrives."

John groaned. He decided he had the right to stake out at least a few seconds, and he shoved his cold, filthy hands into Sherlock's wild hair and kissed him hard, thrusting his tongue in. Sherlock responded, but John could tell the attention was no longer all there.

"Right," John said, struggling to kneel up and close his pants, taking a last longing look at Sherlock beneath him.

It was so dark in that grave, he wasn't even sure he read Sherlock's lips correctly, but he thought that beautiful man still trying to shove an erection that couldn't possibly fit into pants so well-tailored, might have whispered, "Later, soon, I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GORGEOUS [illustration](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3436850) by [kjanddean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kjanddean/pseuds/kjanddean)!


	8. Sisters, What Will You Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John might have momentarily forgotten there's a case to be solved, but Sherlock hasn't.

John only managed to haul himself out by carving a foothole in the grave wall – and also with a slight assist from Sherlock's hands on his rear, pushing him up, and taking a gratuitous, non-utilitarian squeeze. That did at least give John the leverage to offer Sherlock a hand from up top, and help to pull him out, which had to mean something.

And that was all the time it took before Sheriff Greg Lestrade and Deputy Sally Donovan came shouting and running through the woods, calling out to announce their presence; John and Sherlock both knew they were in emergency mode and would be coming through with adrenaline blazing, so they established themselves in non-threatening poses.

"What the – " Lestrade cried as he surveyed the scene. "We got called out cause someone saw lights and heard screaming and shots."

Donovan glanced around more freely, drew conclusions, looked at Sherlock, and gasped, "You sick _freak!_ "

"No, Deputy, it's not like that – " John blurted. _It's worse._ He couldn't help but notice that _of course_ Sherlock had managed to reclaim his coat, which was long and full enough to hide a multitude of sins, and he himself was stuck holding a miner's helmet over his groin in a very unnatural way. He also couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's hair was full of dirt and dead leaves.

Sherlock paced around close to Donovan, the better to dominate her with his height. "I assure you, _Sally_ , a true necrophile would want a much fresher corpse."

"Hell, Sherlock, I came here 'cause we got called," Lestrade said. "Lady on the phone was sure it was devil worshippers."

"I'm still not sure it isn't," said Donovan.

"Obviously _not,_ " Sherlock said coldly, ignoring her and switching his attention to Lestrade. "I'm working on a lead that will eventually help me solve the Hartman case. I know that's the one you care about most, since that's the one that's most recent and right in town. You've let so many others go without calling me, but this one hits close to home for you, doesn't it? You need it solved. You need there to be no further killings in your back yard."

John saw anger cross Lestrade's face, but the sheriff breathed deep and held it down. "And for that, you need to . . . dig up random fifty-year-old graves?"

"Not random," Sherlock said. "You should know me better than that by now. And we're not the first ones to dig here this year."

"Sherlock, you can't just go off on your own. You gotta keep me in the loop."

"John's here," Sherlock defended, and John felt all the attention shift to him.

"I'm here," John echoed lamely.

"Listen." Lestrade was not amused. "You're trespassing. I cain't _always_ look the other way whenever a jaunt through someone else's property strikes your fancy."

"You will," Sherlock said. "You need me."

Lestrade shut up, clearly biting his tongue. Then, Sherlock headed back to the grave.

"Whoa, whoa," Lestrade said. "I'm not gonna let you actually _continue_ disturbin' some poor bastard's grave while I'm standin' right here."

"I would _like_ to get the shovels that are still _in_ some poor bastard's grave. As long as it's okay with you of course, Sheriff."

Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face wearily. "Fine, just. Hurry up." He was already walking back to the car.

Donovan took a step forward. "Sheriff?" 

"Gotta tell 'em it's a false alarm."

While she was busy looking concerned Sherlock manifested at John's side and breathed, "Distract her," into John's ear before disappearing again.

"You okay?" Donovan said, turning back to him. John was glad his suddenly flushed face was (hopefully) obscured by darkness.

"Yeah. Yeah, definitely." John walked a little ways to the side so Donovan looked away from the grave to focus on him, tried not to fiddle with the helmet he was still holding in front of himself, no thanks to Sherlock's voice in his ear just now. "So, Deputy, you uh, you from around here?"

Donovan looked mildly startled. "Yes and no. My granddaddy came up here to dig coal during one of the strikes, but my mama's family been here as long as the hills have. You?"

"Kind of. We moved to Charleston when I was younger." It was hard not to let his eyes dart to where Sherlock was plunging into the grave a few feet behind her. "What about Sherlock? He . . . well, he doesn't . . ."

"Yeah, I know. He fits in even worse than I do."

John laughed, which sounded nervous as hell. Sherlock was still in the grave – how long was this gonna take anyway?

"We can offer you protection, you know," Donovan said, inclining her head. "From him. Political asylum or somethin'."

"Not gonna start talkin' politics are we?"

"I'm serious. He's unpredictable. Take my advice, John Watson, 'cause I know. No good comes of associating with the likes of him." 

"Smearing my name again?" Sherlock called as he walked up to them carrying the shovels and wearing his miner's helmet, smiling a creepily plastic smile. He was somehow even dirtier than before.

Donovan glared. "Got your shovels? Wonderful. Now get on home." She gave John a meaningful look before stalking back to the sheriff's car.

Sherlock waited till the headlights were no longer visible to speak again. What he said was, "Here," and what he did was produce something from his coat and thrust it into John's arms.

"Ugh, this . . . _ugh_." Dug up bones and dirt. John tried not to think about the fact that he was holding someone's remains. He wondered what else Sherlock had under that coat, then remembered that he actually had a pretty good idea due to recent events, and then he had to go back to thinking about human remains again.

Sherlock started back toward the woods at a brisk pace.

"What are you going to do with these, anyway?" John asked, miraculously not falling flat on his face while racing after him through the brush. "It's not like you have that bone fiddle at . . . you have the bone fiddle at home, don't you?"

"It's fine, Miss Adler's tour's almost over. We reached an agreement."

They walked back to the hearse in silence, although the shovels clanged and the twigs snapped beneath their feet. The trek seemed even longer than it had on the way over.

Everything was stashed in the back of the hearse amid further silence, and while John's hands were full of bones Sherlock leaned close with his grimy face and eyes gleaming in the poor light . . . and plucked a leaf out of John's hair.

"Oh," John said, heart hammering nonetheless. "Thanks?"

Sherlock closed the door. "Let's go," he said tersely.

A few minutes of bumpy roads and sexual tension later, John said, "Sherlock, I think we should probably talk – "

"Shh."

"Sherlock, it's – "

"No." Sherlock gestured vaguely at himself. " _Sh._ "

So John settled for looking out the window. After so long in the dark you started to see the colors in the night sky – watery gray around the edges and bruised dark blue directly above. His eyelids were getting heavier, but the uneven roads kept him awake.

The hearse pulled into Mrs. Hudson's driveway and stopped. John looked without really registering where they were, then turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "Your truck's still here?" 

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess it is." John climbed out of the passenger seat, lingered there and held the door open. "So, what's our next move? Do you want me to – ?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking," Sherlock said, reached across to yank John's door shut himself before speeding hazardously off into the night.

John stood alone in the driveway, and it took a lazy breeze with a bitter edge to remind him of how cold it was. The hearse had been cozier than he'd realized.

Mrs. Hudson had left the porch light on and the front door unlocked. Just inside by a little night light that said _God Bless This Home_ was John's laundry, folded and smelling like God probably had blessed it. Next to the laundry basket was a pointedly positioned plate of cookies. She was asleep, but John knew he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't take them along too.

Once he was back at the trailer he put his clothes away automatically, then sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and munched on one of the cookies. It was comfort food, but as soon as he'd finished it it stopped being comforting. He looked around the bland tiny kitchen with its bad lighting. 

Only now that he'd stopped moving did John realize how tired he was, mentally as well as physically. But just because he'd stopped and was tired as hell didn't mean he wasn't still stressed as hell, too. His mind wouldn't stop. This was probably how Sherlock felt all the time . . .

He sighed to the empty trailer.

The whatever else that went with Sherlock. John shouldn't dwell on it, really. It was clear that Sherlock wasn't.

John was determined not to think as he sank into the chair and unzipped his jeans and let his fingers trail up his half-hard shaft. Just a little stress relief, that's all.

He tried to focus on the sensation, on simple physical pleasure and the ways he could deny himself just enough for it to build. His mind wandered to random, oddly nonsexual places – the thrill of swimming as a kid, the way you fantasized you were a superhero speeding through the air instead of a kid in a chlorinated pool; the creeping, unlookedfor camaraderie born out of cramming for a test late at night with whoever was in the library; the smell of smoky autumn or the sweet heady height of summer; the breathtaking bend of this chord to that on records your parents listened to late at night. It wasn't that thoughts like these were some kind of turn on, but they were safely, calmly exciting because they flickered with remembered feelings only. 

John's hand sped up, but it wasn't quite enough. Of course not. And just like that, any pleasure he was feeling was instantly cheapened by frustration. All he wanted was to feel good for an instant and not think and be able to sleep the whole night through. He loosened the leash on his mind, just a little.

John shouldn't have struggled so much to latch onto a fantasy to get the job done. As was an effort to shuffle through the standby sex symbols, Cheryl Tiegs and Raquel Welch and whoever else was supposed to be an ideal woman, but it wasn't helping. He thought of past girlfriends too, and the ghosts of their touches were more palpable than something all imagined: Sarah and Mary, Birgit and Ute, Mai and Lienh . . . So hot and real at the time, and now? Their memories were fond and sweet and oddly unsubstantial in the wake of something powerful and new. As John jerked himself harder it was like a dam had burst, with every point of friction suddenly good.

He was raw and ragged with want, by now, tugging roughly but the lust that had bubbled up in his chest was dying down again. It still felt good, yeah, but it wasn't enough and _God_ that was frustrating, to be stuck here at _almost_ and this should have been _simple_ , goddammit. 

_Sherlock probably never has trouble getting off,_ John thought. _He probably has the most efficient masturbatory routine known to man._

Or maybe not. Maybe, once Sherlock got started, he lost that steely control and went weak and wanton. 

Like he had underneath John, in the grave. He'd seemed pleased enough with John's technique, what little he'd managed . . . God, Sherlock had been so hard, though, so fucking eager. 

But maybe Sherlock touched himself completely differently than John had, when he was alone. Maybe he went torturously slow, and dragged his fingers up and down the length of his cock for ages before bringing himself off. 

Maybe sometimes he did that, but other times he was more efficient. Just getting the job done, like John was doing, that's all. Maybe at times like these Sherlock pumped his cock hard and fast from the start, with something to help with the friction like lotion or, _oh_ , saliva. Sherlock spitting in his hand or sucking those lovely long fingers into his mouth before closing them around himself. 

John didn't know, he just didn't know because Sherlock hadn't quite gotten around to reciprocating in the grave, although he'd teased John plenty through too many clothes and you know what, just getting to watch Sherlock's eyes unfocusing because of John, just getting to feel him breathing hard with sharp ribs against John's stomach, warm and breathless because of John too, that would've been enough. Sherlock wouldn't even have had to touch John, probably.

Yeah, it would've been enough, but what if Sherlock _had_ touched him? What if he'd got his hand around John's cock or, oh, fuck, his _mouth_ – what if Sherlock had bent in the cramped space and oh, whatever, it was a bed now in his fantasy, a big plush one at the Greenbrier which smelled like cleanliness and comfort.

What if Sherlock had held John's hips down on the expensive mattress and slid John's cock in and out of his mouth, which John had seen slack with surprise or tight with concentration or smirking just a little, but it'd be hot and wet and surrounding John's cock instead, and God, the sight of those lips around him would be too much.

Sherlock would probably know how to make John squirm because he was brilliant and observant, or maybe just by virtue of being a man. He'd know what felt good better than a woman would, right? Had _Sherlock_ been sucked off before? Oh, that image . . . Irene or someone making Sherlock feel as desperate for release as John was now. Sherlock might bite his lip and try not to thrust into her mouth. 

John would probably let him, and fuck, John wanted to find out what he would do, find out what made Sherlock moan, how his cock would feel on John's tongue and maybe Sherlock would stare right at him while John was doing it, begging for more or demanding more or just gasping John's name . . .

John came harder than he'd expected, sat bonelessly in the uncomfortable chair for a long time. He staggered off to bed and thought blissfully of nothing. For now, at least.

*******

When John woke up the next morning, it was to the redness of morning light seeping through his eyelids, and for those few blessed minutes before he opened them he didn't remember who he was or where he was or anything else. Then, of course, he did remember, and his leg protested as he clambered out of his narrow bed.

He'd woken to the sunlight, which didn't mean sun _rise_ , not up here in the hills. A watch on the dresser read 3 PM and John did a double take. There was no way he'd slept that long, right? God, he must've been more tired than he'd thought. John yawned his way into the kitchen and rummaged for coffee making supplies, pausing to nab one of Mrs. Hudson's cookies.

"Ah, there you are John. The bones were a match."

Fear flooded hotly over John's skin and his hand shot to his gun, which wasn't there, of course, and he dropped a perfectly good cookie in the process. He needn't have worried, though because it was only Sherlock. Or maybe that was even more reason to worry. "Jesus Christ. What the – I – the _door_ was locked!"

Sherlock waved it off. "Theoretically. This place isn't exactly Fort Knox. Anyway, we're going to interview the victim's family. I have the address, and it's only a short drive from here. Well, when I say short . . ."

"Sherlock, I really don't think you're getting the point, here."

"Oh? What's the point?" It looked like he honestly didn't know.

"Just. Never mind." Sherlock was sitting at John's flimsy kitchen table, scarf off and fingers drumming restlessly. How long had he been there? John said, "What do you want?" more bluntly than he'd meant to.

Sherlock didn't notice or didn’t care. He stared out the tiny trailer window while he spoke: "I went to the police station today to let them know the murderer is a local. Only someone who grew up in Stanger would've known about that graveyard. I intercepted Deputy Donovan who advised me that they had already narrowed the suspects themselves. They'd brought Hannah Hartman's sister Elise in for questioning this morning – she's had numerous curfew violations and some other petty charges, some trespassing and disturbances, so it was easy enough to detain her. Not that she protested all that much. Donovan wouldn't let me speak to her, of course, citing some completely irrelevant technicality about my lack of clearances. I did speak with Lestrade afterward, though. Elise, unfortunately, had no real alibi, just some gibberish about being with nature and losing track of time, and apparently when asked point blank whether she was guilty she said, _When you put it like that, Sheriff, it certainly makes sense that I would be my sister's killer._ "

"Oh. So, case closed, just like that?" How anti-climactic.

"Elise isn't the killer. She's a scapegoat like the rest of them, with the added advantage of having half the town convinced she's crazy or at least a radical. In fact I overheard some of Lestrade's finest officers discussing her surely unpredictable, violent tendencies as evidenced by her anti-war rants in the school newspaper. Lestrade doesn't believe all that, of course – he's really not as stupid as he seems – but he'll arrest her anyway just to calm people down. According to him, _Maybe the real killer will slip up and be less cautious once we're off his trail, and make it easier to catch him._ Lestrade is going with this theory no matter what I say, because Elise as good as confessed and he can't just ignore that. But pinning the crime on someone else has never stopped the killer before. He wouldn't let me talk to her either, so we're going to have to take it from here, John." Sherlock was more gleeful than grim at the prospect.

_Oh thank God._ "Okay fine, but didn't the cops already do that? Interview her?"

Sherlock laughed. "Also theoretical, as it happens. I need to talk to them, myself."

"Them?"

"Her." Sherlock stood, tying his scarf and drawing John's gaze to the movement of his hands, which were sure and careless and which had been touching John so much so recently.

"Okay," John said, trying not to clench his own hands. "Let me just throw on some – "

"I'll wait." 

John felt the weight of Sherlock's eyes as he watched John retreat to his bedroom to dress. When he reemerged in comfy jeans and a shirt that smelled like laundry soap Sherlock's mouth quirked up a little before he led the way outside and seriously, was Sherlock just going to keep doing this? More importantly, how long was John going to keep going along with it?

It wasn't until John was in the hearse again that it occurred to him he'd slept soundly, and without dreaming once.

*******

They arrived at the Hartman residence in no time at all. John was silent the whole drive over, and he never even said _That's it, this is ludicrous, I don't have to go with you just because you asked,_ or _Just what the hell do you want with me, anyway?_ He was counting that as a win.

John knew the neighborhood, but his memory of the place was ruled by echoes of childish frustrations, stupid now but epically important at the time. There were plenty of houses, with less distance between them than John remembered. Houses with original siding and tin roofs, sitting away from the road with built-on garages and abandoned projects loitering in the yard, just flickering colored impressions of people's lives through the emptied tree branches.

John got out of the hearse and followed Sherlock along the little path up to the house. It was a warmer day than yesterday, if only because the sun was beating down on them, unchallenged by clouds in the crazy blue of the sky. John found himself relaxing without even trying, and breathed the air in deeply. He was always struck by the easy, familiar smells, here. Farm smells like hay and manure, woods smells like dirt and metallic creek water, the burn of autumn allergens in his lungs.

Sherlock rang the doorbell. There were clean pumpkins and chrysanthemums on the dirty porch.

Mrs. Hartman answered the door, a wonderfully curvy woman with soft yellow hair but a severity to her face, ready with a welcoming smile but it faded a bit when she didn't recognize them. "Can I help you boys?"

"We need to ask you about your daughter's murder," Sherlock said. She didn't budge. "It would _probably_ be easier if you opened the door."

Her eyes narrowed. "Just who do you two think you are, anyway? You with the police or something?"

John jumped in. "Sort of. My name's John Watson, I'm a doctor. This here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Now, I know you've had a hard time of it lately, ma'am, of course you have, but we just need to do some follow up, here. Try and catch whoever's responsible for Hannah's murder and bring 'em to justice."

They were shown into the living room, which was decorated with nice things that didn't go together. Sherlock claimed the La-Z-Boy for himself, and John found a leftover chair from the dining room set nearby. Sherlock studied John's chair, probably thinking about how it was inherited and what that meant about the people who used it, as though knowing things about people meant you knew them.

"Now then," Mrs. Hartman smiled. "What was it you needed answered? We've already told the police all we know, and they're still no closer to finding my baby's killer. Now, I don't have to tell you this is very tryin' time, for us, and – "

"Is your husband home?" Sherlock asked abruptly. 

She favored him with quite a look before pursing her lips and disappearing down the hallway.

John leaned forward in his chair. "Do you really think that was necessary? I think she's probably perfectly capable of answering your questions."

"Oh, she is, definitely. She did all the talking at the station, according to Donovan. I'd like to talk to the rest of the family, now."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, are you honestly going to accuse grieving parents of murdering their own daughter _in their home_?"

"Of course not, John. She wasn't murdered _here_."

"Good evenin', gentleman." Mr. Hartman at the door. He had a hospitable enough smile but he was clearly irritated, and he hadn't even talked to Sherlock yet. He looked like the sort of jolly-yet-rugged man who patted you on the back while calling your mother a whore. His wife hovered behind him, broadcasting her irritation a little more clearly.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, not shaking his proffered hand. "Hello. Why did you wait to report your daughter missing, Mr. Hartman?"

Most parents would be indignant at the implication, John would've thought, but Mr. Hartman just laughed and said, "Why, we had no idea she _was_ missin'. Hannah was always out and about, traipsing through the woods, off in her own little world. That was our Hannah . . . We didn't even think nothin' of it, her bein' gone so long."

"No, of course not," Sherlock sighed. "It's not like there's been a murderer on the loose for the past year or so . . ."

Mr. Hartman frowned. "Now, look here – "

"Sir," John placated, "we're just wanting to know if it was usual, her bein' gone for days at a time."

"Why yes, yes it was," Mr. Hartman said, wounded. "My darling girl, she had such spirit – "

"Which isn't at all relevant, here," Sherlock cut in. "What about your other daughter? Where is she? I'll need to talk to her, too."

Mr. Hartman snorted. "You're certainly welcome to try. Not sure what good that'd do, though. She's dug herself into quite a hole and don't give a damn about gettin' out of it."

Mrs. Hartman stepped out from behind her husband. "Elise means well." She sounded like she was still convincing herself of it. "She does. But she just won't listen to reason."

Sherlock made a face that didn't bode well, so John spoke up: "What do you mean, ma'am?"

"The way she talks . . . Well, she's just not practical. She doesn't care a lick about being thrown in jail."

"That's for sure," Mr. Hartman said. "How many times has she been arrested in the last year? She tied herself to a damn tree for God's sake – "

"Oh, just let me talk to her," Sherlock snapped. "We're wasting time."

Mr. Hartman glared at him. "Like I _said_ , you're welcome to try. But she won't talk to you. And on the off chance she does, don’t count on her makin' no sense." An intake of breath and it seemed like he had more to say, but he shut himself up and left instead. A minute later the back door slammed.

"I'll get her," Mrs. Hartman said, putting on a smile, then climbed the stairs to fetch her remaining daughter.

"Okay," John said, once they were alone. "Just what did you expect to get out of all that, Sherlock? Does it _help_ to be an ass?"

"Sometimes."

John waited for the punchline, but there wasn't one. "They do have a point, you know. She won't give us much if she's not, you know, all there."

"It's not the source of the data that matters, but the correct interpretation of it. And anyway people who aren't 'all there' are infinitely more engaging than those who are."

John watched Sherlock pick up a doily from the coffee table, frown at it and sniff it and replace it in irritation, and had to agree.

Idly, and like it wasn't horrible, Sherlock said, "Hannah's parents are probably glad she's been taken off their hands, though. They didn't care all that much for her. It's understandable – her mother got an unexpected pregnancy and her father got roped into a marriage, and both of them much too young."

"What makes you think they didn't like her? She was their daughter."

"Walls."

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing there. No high school diploma. No baby pictures, no record of her achievements."

"Maybe she didn't achieve much." 

"Every parent finds something to gloat about in their children, even if it's nothing."

"That a fact? Your parents gloat over you?" They had to have.

"Hey." A teenage girl was leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed. She wore wide bell-bottom jeans and her long dark hair braided on the side.

John was about to make introductions when Sherlock said, "We need to know about your sister."

"Yeah," Elise sighed. "I figured." 

Sherlock watched her while she watched the window. John cleared his throat. "You don't seem too broken up over her death, Elise," he said, carefully.

"It's sad, of course," Elise said. "But only the physical body is gone. "

Sherlock rolled eyes. 

"I know I'm innocent, and so does God." Elise shrugged. "That's what matters."

"Oh come on," Sherlock said. "Whoever you're taking the fall for can't be _that_ scary." 

"I'm not taking the fall for anybody. Karma takes care of justice, eventually. The sins of others are between them and God."

"You're confused on a lot of pretty fundamental religious concepts, you know."

"I appreciate everything," she said magnanimously. She had that self-assured youthful optimism that came when you were old enough to understand life but not old enough to have experienced much of it, yet. She also had pretty eyes that never quite focused on anything or anyone in this world. For his part, John had liked the place a lot better before he'd gotten experience. "The Hare Krishna movement's caught my eye lately."

"That's interesting," Sherlock said, "considering they don't approve of recreational drugs."

"As I said, I appreciate everything. And sometimes I appreciate a joint here and there."

Sherlock studied her. "Clearly. I'm gonna need you to focus, though. Did your sister have any enemies? Disgruntled ex-boyfriends, maybe?"

"Oh, you have no idea. Hal wasn't too pleased when they broke up last year."

"And where is he now?"

"He didn't do it."

"I'll make that determination for myself, Elise. Where is he?"

"Somewhere horrible, probably. Fighting for nothing. Or who knows, he could be dead too by now."

Impulsively, John just said "I'm sorry," and Elise smiled at him. 

"We're getting off track, here," Sherlock said. "Forget about her enemies. What about Hannah's friends?"

"She's a bit of a loner, always in and out and unaccounted for, always playing that guitar of hers – it pisses Daddy off to no end, and Mama too but she won't say anything. There was Jamie, though."

"Tell me about her."

"Well Hannah only hung out with her when she came home on break from college. Hannah wanted to go away from here like Jamie did – she was always making plans to get a job or apply to school or just get in the car and go, but she never did. Jamie's a lot bolder about that stuff."

"How so?"

"Jamie's always _doing_ something, you know? She doesn't sit on her ass and just let life pass her by. She got into WVU, got out of Stanger, and now she's got an internship lined up."

"Where?"

"I dunno. She was Hannah's friend, really, but Hannah was telling me about it and I guess they just need to get the final paperwork through and Jamie's good to go. Listen, did you wanna talk about my sister's murder, or what?"

"I think we've got what we need." Sherlock said. "Isn't that right John?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah." Sherlock was already walking out. John made his (well, Sherlock's) apologies before following Sherlock outside.

He looked back to see Elise smiling beatifically before turning away. Maybe a little sadly.


	9. Nothing Satisfies Me But Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a breakthrough, and a date with Death. John appoints himself chaperone.

The drive back to Sherlock's house was uneventful. They saw some deer hovering away in a field, but none jumped out or even moved as they passed, and every unfortunate roadkill they came across had been considerately pushed off to the side. The very land seemed apologetic, silent and respectful and familiar. 

They passed John's trailer, little more than a suggestion of white under the deepening shade of the hills just before sunset. They passed Mrs. Hudson's house with the windows glowing and smoke spiraling from the chimney. At length they reached the top of the hill where Sherlock's house kept watch, and the sudden release of so much sky and clouds – which were just normal sky and clouds – somehow took your breath away anyway, while far below them ran gentle, worn down mountains gone bluer and bluer with distance until they looked like another layer of the sky.

John followed Sherlock up to the front door through the maze of junk, not that he'd call it that to Sherlock's face. "Wait, is that a . . . a horse hair picker?"

"Yeah."

"And a bobsled?"

"Yeah. Are you coming or what?"

John was coming. Or walking through the door at least. But first he grabbed a clearly weeks-old notice nailed to the door and some of the mail from Sherlock's overflowing mailbox to bring in, too, since Sherlock clearly wasn't planning on doing it. 

It was only as John walked across the threshold that he remembered he'd never actually been inside Sherlock's house. He probably would've been more surprised by its contents a few days ago, but what he saw as he looked around seemed about right, given the state of the yard and, good God, the _hearse_ , which didn't shock him at all anymore. There were a few more theoretically functional pieces of furniture and a few fewer pieces of ancient farm equipment, though. And, sure enough, there was the bone fiddle sitting menacingly on a table in the corner next to a jar of moonshi – wait, that was honey wasn't it?

"Sherlock," John said. "Do you know there's bullet holes in the wall?"

"Yes." Sherlock was plucking random objects off of shelves, eyes searching and searching. "Target practice."

"Ah. Keeping yourself in condition?"

"I was bored."

"Of course you were." John watched him. "M.S.L.?"

"Montani Semper Liberi."

"Heh." 

Sherlock rummaged along in silence. 

"Your house is a museum, you know," John said. "And, coincidentally, you really are a scre-am."

Sherlock stopped and turned around to say, " _What?_ "

"The Addams Family?" 

Sherlock stomped through the house, which creaked in protest, papers and inexplicable trinkets flying, and was that a _human_ skull on the mantelpiece? 

John approached him with caution. "You wanna tell me what you're looking for or just keep going till you rip out a support beam and we're both crushed under the weight of the house?"

"Book."

"Ah." John folded his arms. "You wanna tell me _what_ book?"

"I don't _know_ what book, otherwise why would I be looking?"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times before just giving up and helping him search.

"Anything to do with traditional songs," Sherlock mumbled, and John smiled to himself.

There really were an awful lot of books in Sherlock's house, none of which were contained by a bookshelf. "What about this?" John held up a copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales and Sherlock rolled his eyes. John kept looking.

John thought he glimpsed a good-sized book under a pile of sheet music, and started digging through it: serious looking ones by Mendelssohn and Pablo something, interspersed with the odd compilation of more recognizable Rodgers and Hammerstein show tunes or barely legible handwritten music.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock continued to tear unceremoniously through his belongings in answer.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, _what_ is it?" Sherlock had cooled somewhat by the time he joined John by the pile of music. "Found something?"

"No, but . . . God, you know _all_ these songs?"

"Songs without words aren't songs." Sherlock had noticed John was there all over again, and John was suddenly very aware of how close they were and how easy it would be to lean even closer, not that he was going to, but it was just. You know. Sherlock's mouth was parted very slightly and John could've sucked one or the other of his lips into his mouth but couldn't decide which was more appealing, because the upper one was a lovely shape but the lower one was sort of fuller and redder and closer. Sherlock stood too close for too long before retreating.

They searched in relative silence, John thinking sobering thoughts as he rifled through Sherlock's possessions and did his best to ignore how the entire house seemed to smell like Sherlock. 

John noticed it when Sherlock stopped moving. He could sense it as much as he could hear it, like an unsettling lull in the buzz of conversation in an Army mess hall. In Vietnam it had definitely been cause for concern, and maybe that carried over a bit because John's heart jumped unbidden into his throat and he fought the instinct to race over to Sherlock immediately. He made himself walk at a normal pace. "What is it?" John asked, peering at what Sherlock kept turning over in his hand.

"I don't know where this came from."

"It's a pack of cigarettes," John sighed, feeling like an idiot for getting so worked up. 

"I didn't buy this."

"No no, you did, remember? At that general store. You bought a lot of stuff there, if you'll recall. Like the bee tool."

"Hive tool," Sherlock corrected. "These aren't the brand I get."

"You probably just bought these because your brand was out of stock, Sherlock, it's not rocket science."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." He pocketed them and moved on.

It wasn't long before Sherlock found what he'd apparently been looking for and held a massive, ancient looking book aloft – _The English and Scottish Popular Ballads_. Sherlock smirked as he leafed through the pages, then shut the book again and set it on the corner of an overflowing table, upsetting dust and making John struggle not to sneeze. 

Sherlock handed him a stack of folders through the dust cloud. "Read over them while I take a look at the anthology. See if anything jumps out at you."

"Me?" Sherlock looked prepared to drop the folders if John didn't take them, so John plucked the top one from the stack. "These are police reports."

"Yes."

"How did you get these?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was easy."

"Okay," John nodded. "And was it legal?"

"It was easy." Sherlock thrust the folders into John's arms. "Get to it." He settled in on a deteriorating velvet armchair that looked anything but comfortable and opened up the book, eyes roving over its pages obsessively. 

John sat across from him, in a matching armchair that had fared a little better over the last, like, hundred years. "Didn't you already look at these?" John asked.

Sherlock flipped a page with a flourish. "A second set of eyes is very useful to me."

"Oh." John waited for the other shoe to drop. "Wait, seriously?"

"I've already applied a superior mind to the facts in each case, but there's no guarantee that the killer is as intelligent as I am. Therefore it may be beneficial to know what an average mind would do with the same information."

"And there it is."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

They stayed awake for so long that John lost track of time and even forgot to notice how uncomfortable Sherlock's Victorian furniture was. The gruesome details of the murders swam before John's eyes until he became as dispassionate about them as the verbiage of the reports themselves. Maybe this was how Sherlock had gotten the way he was, through prolonged exposure to the macabre.

Sherlock stood up with much ado, slammed the book down and started pacing. "This is pointless. I know everything about these ballads, already – they're all variations on the same tiresome tales of domestic woe. I know without even looking at them that it's all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude. There's nothing new under the sun."

"Hey! Here's an idea – why don't you look at these reports again? Or at least, I dunno, get them out of the way. I'm done with the pile on the table."

Sherlock seemed to consider glaring, then gave up and took the pile of reports anyway. John expected further bitching, but Sherlock had gone silent. When John looked over he was staring at the table.

"Sherlock?"

"You brought this in." Sherlock brandished the notice. "From the coal company. They're trying to get me to move out." He turned the paper over in his hands thoughtfully. "They do this all the time."

". . . Okay."

Sherlock stared straight ahead, which he always did, but the stare intensified in a way that signified yet another Information Orgasm – God, he was insatiable. He was already shrugging on his coat as he said, "I trust you can see yourself out."

"Sherlock?"

"Something I need to do." He stowed a questionably functional revolver in his belt like it was no big deal and put John on even higher alert. 

"What the hell are you talking about? Can't I help?"

"No, on my own. John, pass me – "

"Uh, _no_ ," John said, standing and handing Sherlock the scarf he'd been reaching for anyway. "You can't drag me along for all of this and then leave me behind just when things are getting exciting." 

Sherlock tied his scarf and watched John with guarded eyes. "Could be dangerous."

John shouldn't have smiled, but one tugged at his mouth anyway. "I'm actually a pretty damn good shot."

*******

The sun was rising somewhere beneath the curves of the hills. You could sense it in the glow of the horizon, the otherworldly feel of stars caught in that brief green part of the sky. John watched the flash of reflectors on the side of the road, the line in the middle darting from solid to dotted to solid again and he should've been dead tired after a sleepless night following countless days of running around, shouldn't he? _Hell, maybe this is all a dream._

"I'm guessing you're not gonna tell me where we're headed?"

"Mine shaft. You won't know it." John couldn't tell where Sherlock was looking under the splotchy blueness of early morning light. "I'll need you to cover me, though. Just in case."

"Just in case of what?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He made an especially sharp turn as if to ward off any future attempts at conversation.

They drove up to a clearly abandoned mine shaft. Underbrush swarmed the entrance, and you wouldn't even have seen it had it been another season. Around the mine shaft was a small, secluded clearing that relaxed into downhill slopes on all sides except the one where a little cliff loomed up out of the fog. John could just make it out as the predawn sunlight grew. Sherlock parked hastily beneath a ridge at the edge of the clearing. He was already out of the car and jogging toward the clearing, a steam of breath misting in his wake, and had disappeared over the ridge before John could even ask what was going on.

John stepped out of the hearse and onto the mottled autumn grass, frost crunching under his feet as he caught up to Sherlock, only to be stopped in his tracks by a decisive hand on his chest and Sherlock holding a finger up to silence him. 

"Too late," Sherlock muttered, then turned on John and whispered rapidly: "Listen to me. Hide yourself somewhere on the cliff face and cover me. Do not shoot unless you have to, do not let yourself be seen, and above all, do not underestimate someone who's killed six people and gotten away with it just because I'm not an idiot and you're not a coward."

"Okay." They stood there. "Okay," John repeated, made to leave.

Sherlock caught his sleeve. "Something else."

"Oh?"

He pulled John into a kiss, abrupt and melting and John had almost forgotten how much he'd wanted this, but it all came crashing back in an instant. 

A minute later it was just another memory, and Sherlock was walking away from him down the rocky slope.

John climbed up the zigzagging cliffside a ways, trying to find a spot to hide and do whatever he was supposed to be doing while still keeping Sherlock in his line of sight. It wasn't easy with the lack of leaves on every potential little copse he came across, but eventually he found a suitable nook behind a grassy chunk of rock. Sherlock was strolling nonchalantly around the edge of the mine shaft like it was something he did every day, while John was beginning to reconsider the wiseness of a vantage point this near to him when he heard a car pulling up.

Sherlock turned toward the sound, looking very smug and as though he'd predicted everything that was happening, which John seriously doubted.

But no matter how aware Sherlock may have been, he was also a bit of a sitting duck in the clearing below. John, however, could see the dark blue, dented pickup grinding to a halt on the other side of the ridge, the man getting out of it and the rifle he loaded and his purposeful stride. John tried to stay put, he really did, but the man was advancing on Sherlock and it just might be that bullets moved faster than Sherlock's mind did. 

John didn't think. He had no trouble sneaking up behind the man, swiping his rifle from him and using the butt of to bestow a blow to the back of his head. It wasn't until after the man crumpled to the ground that John even recognized him as Tanner Greer.

"Why if it isn't Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself." The meandering female voice came from over the ridge, and John couldn't see from here. He slung Tanner's rifle over his shoulder and climbed as stealthily as possible along the cliff, didn't dare to look up.

John could practically hear Sherlock's raised eyebrows. "My reputation has preceded me."

"Oh yes," the faceless woman cooed.

There was a long silence during which John crawled even more carefully through the brush to avoid detection. 

Sherlock's voice: "So, what's a lovely young thing like you doing alone in a place like this?" It still sounded corny no matter how velvety-low his voice had gone.

"Hunting," she replied, and John heard a twig snap so loudly he thought for a moment it had been a gunshot. His panic was unwarranted, however – when he'd returned to his hiding spot Sherlock was still standing in the clearing below while a young woman advanced on him in a way that read as coy on paper but felt predatory somewhere deep in John's bones. 

"And I'm not _alone_ ," she continued, with a sweet little laugh. "Well, I am by now. Your watchdog's taken mine out by now, surely." John stiffened at that, but neither of them looked at him, and why did John always feel like he was intruding when Sherlock talked to, well, anybody?

Sherlock's hands were in his pockets. He rocked back on his heels and tilted his head while speaking to her. It was odd to see him so animated. "All part of the plan?"

"Um, _ob_ viously?" 

"Your accomplice, I take it?"

"I wouldn't say he's my accomplice, exactly. He just has a certain fondness for my age and my gender. And my willingness to dispatch of his long ex-girlfriend, Ms Josephine Bahr. God, spurned lovers are _so_ predictable."

Sherlock laughed, brief and thoughtful. "Got to be too much of a hassle, huh?"

"They all are. These fucking yokels." 

"Doesn't mean you get to decide who lives and who dies," Sherlock said, more reflective than accusatory. "That would make you God."

"So what?" she said, very quietly, and her whole demeanor changed with lightning speed, so frighteningly fast that John's hand was resting on his pistol, now. Then, her tone evening out and abruptly devoid of the fire she'd had mere seconds ago, she shrugged, " _Someone_ had to kill them . . . "

It was only then that John remembered, even as Sherlock said:

"Jamie Rowe. That's your name, isn't it?" Sherlock hunched over, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "Enjoying your Thanksgiving break?"

Jamie smiled, gone back to flirtatious "Starting to. You're gonna help me with that, though."

"Aw, you've been saving the ballad of Henry Lee for me, haven't you? I'm touched."

"Don't be. I always knew you'd need to be dealt with, sooner or later. You've been on my list from the start, actually. In fact I think you're probably on a lot of people's lists – everyone talks about how strange that Sherlock Holmes is, makin' moonshine or whatever else, all alone in his house on the hill. People talk about you all the time, and not in a good way. I know the feeling. Guess I'm just a big old softie, that way."

"Okay, but why me? It's because of my lily white hands, isn't it? Come on, don't lie . . ."

She laughed. "Yes . . . And killing two birds with one stone, too."

"Hm, yes. Efficient."

"Why thank you."

"Or it _would_ be, if it weren't also disastrously ambitious and sloppy and much, much too impromptu to yield much in the way of results."

"Oh, on the contrary, Mr. Holmes," Jamie smiled. "This is far from impromptu, and I think you know that."

"One clumsily planted clue does not a master plan make."

"Worked, though, didn't it?"

Sherlock didn’t respond. He did shuffle closer to Jamie, towered over her and mirrored her sickly-sweet smile. "Well, you have me where you want me. It remains to be seen whether that's going to go in your favor, though."

Jamie leaned in closer, and John's grip tightened on his pistol and he should shoot, he should shoot dammit because there was no telling what she'd do and _Sherlock_ –

What she did was step back, put distance between herself and Sherlock, and aim a gun right at him. Sherlock's gun, and Sherlock couldn't've actually _let_ that happen, only he did, and _goddammit_ , Sherlock. John should've shot her when he'd had the chance. Why did she have to be a woman? Stupid morals.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The song was pretty insistent on a pen-knife."

Jamie shrugged. "Can't have everything. I'll just have to make do with blowing your brains out."

"That _is_ a good point," Sherlock said reasonably, and John had to stop himself from shouting _Are you kidding me?_ "It'll all be the same if you're just going to throw my remains down a well, anyway . . ." 

"Mine shaft."

"You're really not a stickler for details, are you? You've fallen short on all of the murders, in fact."

"How's that? Some of 'em come back to life?"

Sherlock smirked. "It was easy for the first few. I bet Rose Ewart gave you the idea in the first place – Rose Ewart, Rose Connelly. Perfect. She had a husband everyone knew was trouble. It wasn't a leap to assume he'd killed her, and he was much too thick-headed to defend himself very well. He did beat her, after all. The Knoxville Girl was even easier. Selena was from there, and it was like fate that way. Even better, she was black _and_ an outsider. There was no shortage of reasons why someone might want her dead. Kelly Milligan was just that funny old widow from down the street, and nobody batted an eyelash when she turned up dead in such unusual clothes, in a graveyard of all places. She used to handle snakes, for God's sake – well, literally – there were scars on her hands and arms from old rattlesnake bites. Anyway, Long Black Veil isn't a traditional ballad. It's much newer, actually. Honestly, Miss Rowe, is this what they teach you up at WVU these days? Shoddy folklore?"

What exactly was Sherlock planning on doing anyway? Talking her to death? Then again, if anyone could do it, it would be Sherlock.

Jamie rolled her eyes, "Who cares?"

"Poor Ellen Smith," Sherlock continued. ''Or should I say Josephine Bahr? Easy as the others, what with her equally lowlife husband, and that one is actually a ballad, to boot. The husband was suspicious enough that nobody would think to look into, say, a spurned past lover like your good friend Mr. Greer. But then there was Terry McKenna. There was nobody convenient to pin that one on, was there? The best you could do was find a kid who was young enough and occasionally countercultural enough to earn his aunt's distaste. Not exactly unheard of. But you did get a little ambitious, didn't you? So much _blood_. Of course, the horror of it was what you wanted, anyway. The other murders were going under the radar, which was fine because you were too, but not fine because the point of this is the horror. So you used Terry for your Child Owlet and took care of that. Hannah Hartman's murder wasn't much different than his in execution – no pun intended – although you were having considerably better luck laying the blame on her sister. This time, however, you knew her, and _that_ was different. Hannah was your friend."

"So?"

"Then there's me." Sherlock dug a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and brandished them like a weapon. "You swapped out my Camels for Marlboros at the general store. A cigarette – specifically, a Marlboro – started the coal seam fire that ruined this place for mining in the 50s. The government swears it's safe now, but that didn't stop it from driving people out of their homes. How fitting that we're meeting here, at the very spot the fire started, given that you're doing the same thing all over again, albeit with a bit more bloodshed. Tell me, have you been getting up at the crack of dawn every day and driving up here just in case I showed up?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Holmes. I've been watching you. I knew you were getting close."

"Oh, I know you have. And you may want to kill me and make me into your Henry Lee, but you wanted me _here_ , first. You wanted me to figure it out, because it's insufferable being this clever and having nobody to even appreciate it. Believe me, I know."

"You're monologuing pretty hard there, Mr. Holmes," Jamie smiled. "I think you might've seen too many James Bond movies."

Sherlock smirked. "You clearly haven't seen enough of them. But it doesn't matter. None of this really matters, this little reign of terror of yours. However poetic you've been and however cleverly executed these people were, well, executed, none of that is the reason _why_. Every single victim owned land Easton-Bolan Coal Miners would have reason to be interested in. Oh the company hasn't purchased any of the properties that have, without fail, been put up for sale. Not yet, because that would be a little too suspicious and besides, not everyone's been taken care of yet. Fair warning – I'm not planning on making it easy for you."

John heard something, then. Rustling of leaves from behind him, and there were hands on him even as he turned around. He struggled with the man who'd jumped him for awhile but it was no good, something dangerous-feeling was pressed against John's neck and John didn't dare reach for his gun. "Got 'im, Jamie," came Tanner's voice in John's ear. 

Sherlock and Jamie were both facing them, now, and Sherlock looked so quietly terrified that John forgot all about Jamie until she spoke again. She was laughing, in fact.

"Why thank you, Tanner," she said, beaming. And John felt Tanner's grip relax for a split second before a gunshot sounded and he fell limply to the ground beside John. John tried not to wince as blood spattered him. Jamie lowered Sherlock's gun and sighed. "I really had thought you'd taken care of him, doctor. Thanks for nothin'."

"Messed up your plan?" Sherlock asked, so complacent that John doubted he'd been worried for John's safety at all.

"Not really," Jamie said, fingering the trigger guard absently. "Way I see it, you two bozos discovered my boy Tanner was goin' around murdering people, followed him out here, and oh dear, things must've went wrong after that."

"And _how_ do you propose to pin this mess on us, exactly?"

"I reckon I'll take care of that after I kill the two of you, too. Unless of course, you're willing to keep quiet."

"Oh, I don't believe for a second you're letting us out of here alive, no matter what we say." 

"You," Jamie said, pointing her gun in John's direction. "Watchdog. Come down here."

John didn't take his eyes off of her, but out of the corner of his eye Sherlock nodded. John put his hands up as much as was possible as he clambered down the ridge and descended into the wispy fog collected in the clearing. It was like walking into hell, or at least purgatory.

He'd never got a good look at her, he realized. This murderer. This girl who'd barely even begun to live. She had a very youthful appearance, but her face was so, so solemn. It was an unremarkable face, otherwise. John could see why he'd overlooked her, and more than that, he could understand why her unremarkableness would be frustrating beyond belief to her. She was one of those people who reminded you of someone else, for a minute, before you forgot about her entirely. John wasn't likely to forget a single thing about her, this time.

"No, over there," Jamie said, once John had made it to flat ground. She waved the gun at Sherlock carelessly before pointing it back at John. "With him."

"If you think I'm gonna just give in and go quietly, you've got another thing comin'." John stopped pretending he didn't still have his pistol and aimed it at her, not to kill, of course, but that didn't mean it'd be pleasant for her if he fired. "So, what happens now? We just stand here staring each other down at fifty paces like a bad Western?"

Jamie didn't look perturbed in the least, just gave a little shrug and pointed her gun at Sherlock again instead. John's stomach dropped. "This happens now. So go ahead, 'Doc Watson'," she drawled. "Just shoot. I guess we'll see what happens . . . "

She'd kept her eyes on John the whole time, stupidly, while Sherlock was, equally stupidly, edging closer to her, stretching out his hand now and it was so hard for John not to look. John couldn't think of anything convenient and distracting to say and no no no now Jamie was turning her head . . .

Sherlock darted backward, having taken back his gun and hurled it down the mineshaft. Jamie looked surprised, then furious, then resigned. She was trapped by John and Sherlock on one side with the mine shaft yawning wide at her back.

"What are you going to do?" Jamie asked, very quiet.

"What do you think?" Sherlock said, delighting in the upper hand kind of sickeningly. "Expose you."

"I'll be arrested . . ."

"Well, that too, I guess. But it's – "

"No. You can't, though. _No_. Nobody can ever know I was behind this."

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe you should've thought about that before you started murdering people. People do tend to go to jail once they're caught."

"NO," Jamie shouted. "I don't care about that. People can never know _I_ did this. It won't be scary anymore."

"Not terribly scary now, if you want my opinion," Sherlock said.

She didn't even pause to snark, just ran her hands through her yellow hair obsessively and kept babbling: "People can't know. People can't _know_ . . ."

"You never got to complete your set of ballads? Well, there's nothing you can do abou – what are you doing?"

John's eyes widened as she produced a knife out of nowhere. "Jamie," he said carefully. "It's okay, just take it easy."

She sang, listlessly, "Little Henry Lee . . . we'll throw him in this deep, deep well, more than one hundred feet . . ." 

" _Jamie_ ," Sherlock warned. He took a step forward.


	10. Gimme Danger, Gimme Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One big death, and two little ones.

Too late, though, because Jamie plunged the knife into herself over and over again. She said, "Close enough," dazedly before swiping the blade across her carotid artery. Her eyes saw nothing as she fell backwards into the mine shaft. 

John caught Sherlock by his coat – he'd been lunging forward like an idiot, like he was actually considering going after her, and he twisted out of John's grip but stayed put after that. 

They stood motionless while the impersonal crumble of rock and debris echoed up from beneath the earth. When John finally looked over at Sherlock, for the first time in what seemed like hours, his face was sprayed here and there in blunt bright blood spatter. His expression was disarmingly shocked, features lax and eyes stretched wide, but instead of inspiring sympathy it made John want to smack him upside the head and give him a lecture on taking better care of his toys. 

What John said was, "Just what the hell were you thinking, Sherlock? Grabbing a loaded gun from a _clearly_ unstable _serial killer?_ "

"I didn't," Sherlock said, still sounding far away.

John barked a laugh. "Uh, yes, I think you did. I was there, you know."

"You're so dramatic. She wasn't _that_ unstable." Sherlock collected himself, sharp intake of breath before he stood up straighter and looked at John for the first time in what felt like forever, come to think of it. "I knew it would be all right."

"Oh, right, of course, because you can just predict the _actual_ future, right? Right. Got it. So, mm, just out of curiosity, what if things _weren't_ all right, and she'd decided to shoot one or both of us?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, of course you – wait, what?"

"You heard me."

"Yeah," John said, suddenly losing momentum. "No, yeah." And Sherlock leaned very slightly forward then, so John just tugged him the rest of the way in and kissed him, this time.

Sherlock's face was chilled but his mouth was so warm, like hot syrup, or maybe that was just John's stomach talking. He was hungry for something, though, that was for sure, and he licked at the cold, chapped seam of Sherlock's lips to delve his tongue inside so it could melt against Sherlock's. 

Sherlock gave a low, involuntary groan and struggled to keep up, and his clumsiness in being caught off guard tasted as good as his mouth did. John was getting dizzy with it, couldn't press the kiss any further so he dragged his mouth along Sherlock's neck instead and tasted the blood he'd forgotten about, which was horrifyingly warm.

Sherlock seemed to follow his train of thought, and laughed breathily before drawing John into another kiss, more self-assured this time, with firm icy fingertips at the base of John's skull to still him and yeah, this was just as delicious. And if John kept acting like this whenever there were dead bodies nearby then Sherlock was really going to get the wrong idea, but God, John really, really didn't care.

They broke for air. "We have," John panted, "got to stop doing this in such morbid locations."

"Yes," Sherlock said, even-voiced but his mouth was very red. "Like where?"

"Well . . ." John leaned in and traced a hand over Sherlock's cheekbone, trailed his fingers down until Sherlock captured the tips in his mouth. "Anywhere else, really . . . "

John drew in breath sharply as Sherlock sucked his index and middle fingers up to the knuckle. And then Sherlock pulled his mouth away, John's fingers caught in his hand, and Sherlock whispered, "Come home with me. Come to bed with me." 

"Yes," John said quickly and quietly, because there was no other answer. Well, there _were_ other possibilities, and he'd been thinking all along that there'd been no shortage of places he'd have been willing: at the Greenbrier, in his trailer, in the graveyard, in any remote corner of the woods at any time . . . but when it came down to it, given his first choice, he'd want a place where he and Sherlock could explore each other and splay each other out, in privacy, with no time limit, with no killers breathing down their necks, in a room with a large bed. Yes. He'd be willing to wait for that. Even if it was a few hours – and he really hoped it wouldn't be – it was still closer than it would have been a week ago, when he hadn't even met Sherlock yet.

In light of that, John found momentary strength to nudge Sherlock's other hand away from his groin and grab it hard. "Sherlock, there are two people _dead_ here. We have to get Lestrade. We just can't be . . . "

"I know what she meant for me. She wanted to proposition me, and kill me when I said no. Not _if_ mind you, _when_. Of course I found her repulsive, she knew I would. But she never understood that, she just went by gossip. One of the most dangerous rumors circulating about me is that I'm a homosexual."

John watched him. "And?"

"It's not one hundred percent true, but it's more true than false. I gauge myself at about 5.14. Which, for the record, is about two-tenths to the right of Irene, who identifies as a lesbian but still desired me!" 

John just looked at Sherlock's face, and something in him went soft. "Sherlock," he said firmly, grabbing Sherlock's wrists. "I thought I was straight until I met you, and that doesn't change the fact that I'm just waiting for you to call Lestrade and get the legal crap over with so we can go home together."

"It's a weakness. It's dangerous. It's one of the reasons why Mycroft needed me out of Washington."

"Yes, I can imagine," John said, still holding Sherlock's wrists, but more gently. It was _Sherlock_ who was having a sexual identity crisis at the worst possible time? He was not alright with this – but someone had to be.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Just call Lestrade and get the reports over with. I don't care about all that right now. I want the same thing you want. I want sex. With you. As soon as possible. Call him so we can get there."

"Alright, FINE!" Sherlock shouted, pushing John away so hard that John briefly felt hurt. Still, he followed Sherlock over the hill to where his hearse was stashed, and he couldn't help but ogle Sherlock's plump ass as the mad genius dug into the back, and pulled the CB radio out and plugged it in. And he couldn't keep himself from laughing as Sherlock pulled the mike to his mouth and muttered, "Breaker, breaker, Sheriff District 12, come in!"

"Sheriff District 12, 10-4."

"Wrong channel brother, go dark, you know the word, over."

Wait. Wait. The radio rattled from a covert channel.

"Breaker, breaker. Honeydripper, this is Silver Fox, come in."

"Silver Fox, this is Honeydripper, 10-4, ten-fifty-five times two. Ten-twenty is Old Easton-Bolan hole. I'm fine and so is Porcupine, but can't say the same for your prey. Tell all later. Come soon. Tired. Over."

"Honeydripper, I copy, on my way, over."

John just stared at Sherlock. "HONEYDRIPPER?" He was so exhausted and giddy all he could do was laugh.

Sherlock smiled. "You can't possibly think that _I_ thought it up, do you? Though, to be fair, Lestrade didn't name himself 'Silver Fox' either.'"

"Oh, right," John said, still helplessly giggling. "The bees. Honey."

"Yes," said Sherlock, "And you didn't wonder about 'porcupine'? That's you. Prickly . . . but cute."

John eyed Sherlock crudely. "How long do you think it'll take him to get here?"

"About 20 minutes, why?"

John sighed and pursed his lips. "Not long enough for what I want to do to you. We'll have to wait."

Sherlock sucked in breath hard. "Twenty minutes is more than enough," he said as he reached for John's crotch, again.

John grasped Sherlock's wrist and stilled it, again. "Not long enough to make it good. I insist on this. We wait for Lestrade. We make sure we're clear. Legally. And then, as soon as he clears us, we'll be free, and then we'll go to your house. And oh GOD, I can't wait for that."

They were so close together. John couldn't help drawing Sherlock into another kiss; just one, just one – that hair, those lips, how could he resist? Dangerous. So very dangerous. Every kiss weakened their limbs.

They had already lain down on the frosty ground together with legs entangled, when Sherlock drew up his strength and pushed away from John. "I like the idea of what you want. You're right. We should wait."

"And just when I'd changed my mind, too," John groaned. "Why is Lestrade's timing always so terrible? Too fast or too slow. No middle ground."

But just as he said it, there was the sound of a car far away; even in their hazed state, it was blissfully clear. And just as fast, John and Sherlock leapt to their feet. John was grateful he'd been smart enough to wear his longer parka this time. Yes, he was picking up practical lessons from Sherlock, no doubt about it.

"Hey there," Lestrade said, "10-55s, eh?"

"They took care of each other," Sherlock said. "In a sense."

Tanner's body drew Lestrade's attention, of course, and the sheriff peered down at it. "You witnessed it?"

"Oh yes," John said.

"And of course neither of you boys . . . ?"

"I think you'll find that neither of these deaths fit the running pattern very well," Sherlock cut in. "Tanner Greer wasn't an intended victim, and neither was Jamie Rowe, who you'll find over there in the pit along with my favorite revolver which she used to shoot him, if you can manage to get some good spelunking equipment."

Lestrade took a deep breath that said 'God, give me strength' as eloquently as any old hymn. "But they _were_ about to strike again, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I was the intended victim. Obviously that didn't work out as planned. I'm going to offer you a choice, Sheriff. I can give you a cursory and grudging and monosyllabic statement right now, or I can tell you the whole story in detail tomorrow. I know you're not _entirely_ lacking in intellectual curiosity . . . "

"Sheriff, he's really, _really_ tired – " John cut in. "We ain't slept all night, or the night before either, he's been workin' so hard, and . . . "

"Dr. Watson," Lestrade said. "Can you give me your word that none of the bullets in those people came from either one of you?" 

"I sure can."

"Fine, that's the important part. Go get some sleep. We gotta get these bodies out. But Sherlock – "

"What?"

"What do you mean by tomorrow? It's morning now."

"Night."

Lestrade sighed. "Fine. But if you don't answer the phone by 8, I'm gonna bust in your door. Again."

"And you'll fix it yourself. Again."

And with that, Sherlock turned and strode down the hill towards the hearse, with John close behind him. They were no sooner in the front seat than they lunged upon each other again, with roaming hands and licking, biting mouths.

"Sherlock," John managed to gasp into his ear. "Take us home. Now. Please."

"Home," Sherlock said in a strangely broken voice. "Yes, that's the place. Alright." With heroic force, he uncoiled himself from John and started up the hearse and turned it back onto the road.

John was breathing deep, counting slow, visualizing rotting corpses and naked Nixon, and trying with all his willpower not to use the two actual human deaths he'd just witnessed as fodder to control his lust. 

_I'd have done it if I had to. I'd have killed her._

John couldn't take his hand off Sherlock's thigh, though part of him thought he should. That was asking too much. He was anchored to the pulse and heat he felt there.

_I've just met him, and I could have lost him. And it's going to be like this, isn't it? It's not safe. He's not safe. Not to himself, not to me, not to anybody. But right now, we are. Safe. We're okay._

The air was bitter cold, but John still rolled the window down a crack. The chill helped him breathe.

Sherlock took a hand off the wheel and reached in his pocket. He lit a cigarette and sucked it hard, blowing out blue smoke that evaporated quickly in the wind . . .

"I'm glad you're smoking. Not chewing."

"I'll be wanting your tongue in my mouth again very soon," Sherlock said almost calmly. "And vice versa." 

"Right," John said. "Can you spare a drag?"

Sherlock pulled over on the narrow shoulder of the road and pulled John close, breathing sharp smoke right into his mouth. Then he passed the cigarette over to let John suck at it, and turned back onto the road, trying to pretend to focus completely on driving. 

"Oh, you fuckin' cocktease," John groaned.

"I try," Sherlock said with a little chuckle. Then, as John watched him in the weak early morning light and the greenish glow from the odometer, Sherlock's brow furrowed and he seemed to look puzzled.

John let it go for a curvy mile, then moved his hand up a half inch higher and gave the tiniest of squeezes. "I can hear you cogitatin' from over here. Wanna share with the class?"

"I'm thinking about what we're going to do. I can't stop thinking about it. I should know what you want, but I don't, and it bothers me that I don't. I will find out though. I will read you like a Tijuana Bible, and I will do _everything_ you like. Have you ever performed fellatio before?"

The whiplash took John by storm. No one asked things like that – except Sherlock.

"Um . . . actually . . . um . . . once, yeah. We were really drunk though. So trashed. Especially him, he couldn't even stay hard."

"I wouldn't have that problem," Sherlock said with certainty.

"I'll make _sure_ you don't," John growled, sliding his hand up another inch. Sherlock gasped a little, and the hearse wavered enough on the narrow bend to make John think that was a bad idea.

But Sherlock was still thinking, and that was worrying. "You've mostly been with women, I know that, and I think your experience with them is fairly extensive. Have you ever penetrated one of them anally?"

John was almost close to jumping out the door again. Why, oh why, did this county have to be so big, and the murder site and Sherlock's house on opposite ends of it? "Well . . . um . . . yeah, I have, she asked me to try it, and . . . "

"Did she like it? Did you?"

"Oh hell yeah," John blurted, and then coughed.

The silence after that was painfully long to John's mind. Seconds in the real world, decades in mortified horn-dog years.

"That's what I want," Sherlock finally said. "I want you to do that to me."

"Oh GOD," John cried, and threw all caution to the wind to reach across Sherlock's hips to his coat pocket where the cigarette pack lay. With shaking hands, he pushed in the hearse's lighter and drummed his fingers while he waited for it to heat. He really, really wished it also had a whiskey-shot dispenser. "You don't believe in takin' it slow, do you?"

Sherlock just laughed. "We've known each other for five days. What do you think?"

John lit his cigarette and smoked it hard, shaking his head. By his mental map, they were close. Sherlock turned the wheel one more time, and then they were on the glorified driveway that was Route 221. John's trailer, then Mrs. Hudson's cottage, and then, finally, Sherlock's huge house. 

As the hearse stilled in his driveway, John wondered if Sherlock wanted him to take him right then and there. He wouldn't have been averse to it. Instead, John took a deep breath and opened the passenger door. Sherlock got out of his side and stood there, frozen, strangely swaying.

"Is something wrong?" John asked.

Sherlock twitched uncomfortably, his whole body tensing slightly. "It's . . . a strange thing. For me. I mean . . . I feel sexual desire towards you."

"Yeah, well, I ain't no genius, but I figured that out," John said. He didn't think he should have that laugh in his voice, but he couldn't quite help it. "Likewise, it's mutual, you know that too."

"I also enjoy your company most of the time," Sherlock said, as if he were just realizing it himself.

"Also mutual."

Sherlock's face pinched a little bit, and his hands twitched. "I've . . . never encountered both traits in the same person before." 

John had no idea how to respond to that. He just looked up, taking in Sherlock's restless beauty in the cloudy dawn. Sherlock was not a talk-about-your feelings kind of guy, and for him to stop everything like this . . . 

"I'm honored," John said. "I really am. You have no idea – "

And the moment passed, and then Sherlock seized John's arm and marched him up the porch.

Sherlock only fumbled a little with the keys at the door, and that was enough opportunity for John to turn quickly and press him against the wall. John leaned up on his toes so they were face to face, mouth to mouth, and deliberately held back from kissing him. Face to face, so close, Sherlock's eyes the same color as the clouded morning sky – 

"Get the door open," John whispered.

It was ridiculous from then on; legs tangling, hands reaching, as they fumbled through the parlor and kitchen and towards the stairs like some creature who'd suddenly sprouted twice the usual number of limbs and hadn't figured out how to move well yet.

John found himself one step higher than Sherlock on the stairs, and took that chance to kiss him again, because for a change he could look down and reach down, and _lift_ Sherlock's chin, and _lower_ his own lips. Maddening. Good. Sherlock turned his face for John's kiss differently this way, a little bit further to the left than usual, turned his nose further sideways, and used his long arms to reach down and caress the backs of John's legs from calves to knees to thighs. John groaned and stood up straighter. Six stairs ahead, and then the hallway of the second story. Sherlock pressed him so hard into the stairwell wall, John thought he might get carried the rest of the way. Instead, Sherlock just grabbed his hand and led him.

When they got to Sherlock's bedroom, John was so dumbstruck he forgot their main objective for at least a solid four seconds – because it was _impeccably tidy._ Not up to military standards, but only because Sherlock owned too much stuff. All of which, in this room, was neatly organized. The Periodic Table on one wall. A framed Judo Black Belt certificate on another (which John found a sudden and powerful turn-on).

It wasn't a very long pause or a big distraction but it was enough to short-circuit John's brain completely when he found himself being quickly lifted off the floor and _thrown_ across the big wooden bed, and that was just too much, being reminded like that how Sherlock was so quick, and so much stronger than he looked.

John lay back on his elbows and looked at Sherlock standing between his feet, looming over him, and just said, "Take off your clothes. I want to see you naked."

"Again, you mean," Sherlock said. He unwound his scarf and shucked off his coat and jacket and started work on his shirt buttons with those long pale fingers.

"At the Greenbrier. In the bathroom. You did that on purpose."

"I was testing a theory. It was a deduction in progress."

"A seduction, you mean."

"It was both," Sherlock admitted, working his way down the placket, showing off only a little as he peeled the mulberry shirt from his shoulders. John sat up straight and reached up his hand to touch, running his fingertips over all the sensitive and vulnerable places at chest and belly where Jamie's knife could have pierced.

Sherlock undid his belt with graceful efficiency and let his pants fall to the floor, and was free of them and beautifully nude with two small steps of his long feet, and John was nearly face to face with his cock, but chose to lift his face a little and press his lips against Sherlock's stomach, just above his navel, feeling pale fine down against his mouth.

"It's not fair," John muttered. "A brain like yours in a body like this. It's too much."

"It's just transportation."

"There's a big difference between an AN-24 COKE and a Learjet 35."

Sherlock just laughed softly and ran his fingertips over John's cheek, sliding the tip of his index finger into John's mouth. "Take off your clothes too. Give me something to watch."

_Oh God._ With steady hands, John unbuttoned his shirt, sitting up straight, knowing perfectly well Sherlock would study his scars, and if he hadn't shown them to anyone since, well, what better time than now. As he bared his shoulders and torso, he heard Sherlock draw in breath sharply – but if John was any good at reading expressions, it definitely wasn't pity there. So he kept going, and quickly at that, because the sooner he got his own clothes off, the sooner he could touch Sherlock again, so he undid his belt quickly and pulled down both jeans and underpants quickly, let his hard dick bounce free, and got his pants tangled immediately on his socks and boots.

And Sherlock went to his knees to undo John's shoelaces. Never losing contact with his eyes for a second. John groaned.

"Oh, John," Sherlock whispered, nudging his way up the inside of John's legs.

"Graveyard," John said, still a little bit off-guard. "You fucking tease. I went home and jerked myself raw and thought of you the whole time."

"I did the same," Sherlock said.

"You jacked off and thought of yourself? Wouldn't put it past ya." John's hand curled and tightened in Sherlock's hair. Clearly a misstep, because Sherlock was done with his work, and John was about the nudest he'd ever been in his life, and Sherlock was creeping back up between his legs, pausing for just a moment at his throbbing cock and nuzzling it. John gasped at the feel of it: Sherlock's cheek, every so slightly stubbly; Sherlock's lips, closed at first and then opening enough to take in half of the side of his shaft, tongue moistening the way. "Sherlock, _fuck,_ no, let me touch you first, let me play with you . . . "

"Gladly," Sherlock murmured, and John surged up to meet him, running his hands up Sherlock's sides to his chest. He flicked his thumbs against Sherlock's dark rosy nipples and was rewarded with a muscle twitch and a gasp.

"Oh, you like that."

"Yes."

John bent his mouth to lick one, the left, arbitrarily chosen. It was hard before but it stiffened further under his attentions and he pressed his lips around it to suck, drew his lips back to gently bite. He repeated this on the right side, fingertips rising up to toy with the abandoned left one, and let himself be entranced by the pleasure of giving pleasure.

That might have been a mistake, because Sherlock pushed him down and climbed on him, awkward and graceful at once, a predatory light in his eyes. "John," Sherlock said. "Up on your knees. Please. Close together. Come up behind me. Like this."

John got his first long look at Sherlock's long naked back, his beautiful bare round ass, and did as he was told, melding himself right up against that creamy skin and lean muscles. His cock was taking the lead now, and he moaned as Sherlock rose up a little on his own knees, so that the head of John's dick fit against his buttocks just right. "You know what I want," Sherlock groaned. "There's Crisco in the drawer. Please."

"Why do you have Crisco in your nightstand drawer?"

"Why do you think?"

John bit Sherlock's shoulder and ran his hands over the front of Sherlock's body, taking that big erect cock in his hand and giving it a stroke. It was Sherlock's long arm that reached for the drawer and pulled out the jar. "Go," Sherlock ordered. "I don't need much prep. I know what I like."

"Well, I _don't_ really know what I like yet with men," John said. "I only know I like _you._ I want to play with you. I don't want to rush."

Sherlock actually whimpered. Damn, he was a demanding son of a bitch. "John. I want your cock inside me. _Badly._ Don't tell me you don't want to hold me down and make me scream. I know damn well I've pissed you off enough."

"You did that on purpose, too," John said, breathing in the scent of Sherlock's sex musk, biting his shoulder. No fool, though, he'd already dipped his fingers in the slick shortening. Just to be cruel, John trailed that particular glob around the head of Sherlock's cock, tightened two greasy fingers in a ring around it and squeezed, and let Sherlock's involuntary hip movements fucking John's hand incite John's own cock to even further hardness.

With one quick breath, John drew in strength and crooked his other arm across the back of Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him face down into the pillow. Sherlock cried out in a sound that could not be misinterpreted.

John was tired of looking gift horses in the . . . well, at Sherlock's beautiful posterior, spread open and presented to him and begging. One slick finger in, then two, and then Sherlock's hips began to rock back and forth, and he was clearly so eager for it, and it _was_ a three-times-repeated order after all. John pressed the head of his greased cock against Sherlock's hole, and _pushed._

Sherlock thrust backwards, _hard_ , and John cried out to find all his gentle prep plans ruined; he was already buried fully inside, and Sherlock was fucking _him_ , and the feel of that tight pulsing tunnel constricting his cock, combined with the sight of that long lean back and bowed, submissive shoulders, and the flip of dark curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck . . . God, John thought he didn't need to move at all to come, not with those sensations and that sight. He hoped he wouldn't have to move much. He wanted to last, and this was . . .

"Like that? You okay?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Yes. I like a long, deep in-and-out to start with, and when you're buried very deep, roll your hips in a circle. Mortar-and-pestle motion for a while, that's very good. Alternate that with quick teasing sharp thrusts at the very edge, and then go back to long, deep in-and-out strokes."

"Sir, yes, sir," John groaned, and did as he was told. The sensations were incredible as he concentrated only on the things his cock was doing deep within Sherlock's tight heat, and the way Sherlock's body was responding in so many different ways. Twitch of his sphincter, slower tightening and loosening of the muscles of the pelvic floor. Possible response to prostate stimulation? Oh, John hoped so. Grind of his hips, spread of his thighs, arch of his pelvis as he received and gave back everything he'd asked for. 

John let his hands tighten on Sherlock's hips and pull him up closer as he worked; he let his fingers snake down the front of Sherlock's thighs and let his nails scratch there; he bent down to lick sweat from Sherlock's spine and let his own drip there from his forehead. Above all, he kept his motion varied but constant, savoring the feel of the slickened slide, the tightening and loosening, becoming exquisitely sensitive and alert to every minute signal Sherlock gave off in breath and whisper and groan and scent.

"You're close, you're close," Sherlock said in a broken, panting voice. "You want to come. Use me. Fuck me hard. Take what you need."

"Oh God."

"I want it rough now. I'm close too. Shove it in. Give it to me." Sherlock snapped his spine up, and took John in, even deeper. 

"Oh God." John bit his lip and stopped trying to hold back, and put every memory of how Sherlock had pissed him off recently right into the base of his spine, and started pistoning in and out of Sherlock's hole cruelly, at last letting himself be driven by the devil in his balls. 

The obscene sounds of their slapping skin and Sherlock's gasping cries undid him, along with Sherlock's evil squirmy little twists and clenchings. John broke open in a long pulsing orgasm that felt so good it almost hurt, and he fired his come deep into Sherlock's body, with the full force of days' worth of teasing and longing. Sherlock kept rocking back against him through every spasm of it, so eager to feel it all.

When John finally managed to collect his breath, he found Sherlock boneless and weak and almost, apparently – pure illusion of course – submissive beneath him. But when he withdrew himself carefully, and kissed Sherlock's shoulder, and pulled his friend around to look at him, he found Sherlock still erect and alert.

John leaned down to brush his forehead against Sherlock's, and got caught by a skilled hand pulling at the back of his neck. Sherlock's mouth was open, his tongue was still searching, and as John kissed him deep again, he ran his hand back down that beautiful torso, now completely soaked in sweat. His hand curled around Sherlock's cock, which was still so hard it had to be hurting by now.

"I ain't lettin' that go," John murmured into Sherlock's mouth. "No, no, you're getting some rest now, and I know that ain't happenin' til I make you come."

He kissed his way down Sherlock's throat and chest and belly. And he remembered what Sherlock had asked him on the drive. He'd do a good job of it this time, or choke to death trying.

John lifted Sherlock's cock to his mouth, and licked circles around the head. He was rewarded with a strangled cry. _Good start, then_. John opened his jaws and took the head between his lips, using his tongue to taste the whole wet coating of salty pre-ejaculate, tightening his mouth and sucking as he worked his lips down and back up again, as far around the shaft as he could manage at a stroke. A little further down with each dip.

Sherlock's twitching, shaking hand came to rest at the back of his head.

John took his cock further in, exhausted mind pulling up from its memory banks everything his girlfriends had done that he liked. _Can't deep-throat? Use your hand around the base, slide it up and down._ He did that, and Sherlock's hips moved.

_Squeeze his balls gently. Play with them. Roll them around. Tug them lightly. Men like that._ Sherlock did.

_Slide your fingers back there, press his taint, curve them up into his hole. Men like that._ John liked that; Sherlock's ass was still slick with John's come, and that was _hot._ That had been a hard fuck; Sherlock must still be a little sore. John wouldn't press the issue there. That was hot too. 

So hot that John, knowing Sherlock's ass was vulnerable and off-limits, used his mouth to pump Sherlock's cock as if it was just another kind of fuck, which it was, and soon Sherlock was arching up and begging, with words for once: "John, please, right there, like that, don't stop . . . oh _that,_ like that, oh now, now, please, yes, _fuck . . ._ "

Long fingers tightening on his head, holding him down, hard thrusts down his throat, sudden bitter eruption in his mouth . . . and John _loved_ it, groaning through the spill, holding Sherlock's hips hard and sucking to make sure he caught every drop and worked Sherlock all the way through every single pulse of pleasure.

John's eyes were watering, his mouth was drooling, his jaw was cramping, and he wasn't entirely sure that wasn't a stray jet of Sherlock's semen shooting out through his _nose._ It stung and made him want to sneeze, but that was okay, it was worth it. He swallowed most of the rest.

When he finally felt Sherlock's dick softening against his tongue, John pulled away and looked down on the single most beautiful sight he'd seen in his life. If he'd thought Sherlock was breathtaking before orgasm – and he had – it was nothing compared to seeing him after, loose and debauched and relaxed and heartswellingly happy.

All John could do was commit that sight to memory for the rest of his life, chuckle a bit and kiss Sherlock's treasure trail. All he could do after _that_ was crawl upwards, aim his head at a pillow, and vaguely flail his already half-asleep arms in a Sherlockian direction. He knew he'd be asleep before he could even register whether Sherlock embraced back.


	11. Soldier's Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gradually, John's new life is going back to, um, "normal."

John woke up to a sound like gravel pelting the roof and against the window. Through the streaked glass, he could see fat, wet flakes of snow mixing in with the sleet. The woods were a drab and misty blur.

He was in a real bed this time. Sherlock's bed. And he was finally warm. And there was the fact that he was lightly bruised and certain muscles long unused were aching, and the sheets smelled of men and sex. John rubbed his nose against the pillow that smelled like Sherlock the most.

The morning-after panic wasn't real. It only showed up as a ghost of itself because it was expected. A little bit to his own surprise, John felt no regrets at all. None whatsoever.

Even less when he visited the toilet (indoors in bad weather, oh what a luxury, glory hallelujah), and much much less so when his nose started to sort out the complex cocktail of smells from downstairs and found that, yes, fresh coffee was one of them. He threw on his dusty and faintly bloodstained shirt and jeans, having nothing else, and made his way to the kitchen.

That's where he found Sherlock, wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a what looked like a small welder's mask, staring into the messy orange guts of a totally exploded large pumpkin.

"Good morning, John," he said without turning around, in _exactly_ the same way he'd said it when he'd caught John having a good snoop around his yard. Could that really have been less than a week ago? He never took his face away from his work.

"It's afternoon," John said. "At least I think it is . . ." With a strange fondness, John studied the hunch of Sherlock's shoulders as he rooted through pumpkin mess, the way the strap of the mask cut a path through his dark curly hair . . . oh, then there was the way that hair had felt in John's hands when he stroked it, then grabbed and pulled it, and the feral energy that unleashed . . . well . . .

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock sighed, magnified by the metal over his face. Yes, that _was_ a small blowtorch by his hand. "Mrs. Hudson will be serving pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving dinner. She has correctly deduced that it's my favorite. But I don't know _why_ it's my favorite, or if the formula could be improved."

"I'm sure the cinnamon and nutmeg must have something to do with it."

"Obviously. But in the preliminary stages of a study, one has to isolate the discrete components. Didn't you have to master third-grade science to get into medical school?" Sherlock had taken on his addressing-a-slow-three-year-old voice again.

John's strange fondness didn't dissipate. Not in the least. But it did mean Sherlock deserved a little needling.

"I know this ain't really your area, but you should still look a man in the eye and not talk down to him too much mere hours after he's had your cock in his mouth."

Sherlock looked up and turned suddenly, and, buried behind the steel, John thought he saw a milliglimpse of fear in those quicksilver eyes. Fear that he'd misstepped. And then, just as fast, observation that he hadn't, not really.

"You're so vulgar, John."

"You didn't seem to mind that before. Had a pretty raunchy mouth yourself."

"Context is very important," Sherlock said primly, and John could clearly hear the wry smile. "Isn't it time for your sexual identity crisis?"

"I'll do that later," John said. "Right now, I'm too horny."

Sherlock started to laugh, but then John got close enough to push the welder's mask off and any further banter got muddled by kissing as it fell to the floor. Sherlock hummed into John's mouth and John heard the probably unsafe clatter of Sherlock letting the blowtorch fall to the floor. Wide warm hands ran up under John's shirt and over his chest. John shivered and retaliated by undoing the sash of Sherlock's bathrobe, which was dark blue and contrasted nicely with his pale skin. 

Sherlock broke the kiss on a gasp when John's hands began mapping his body greedily, which provided John with the opportunity to kiss his defiant chin and elegant neck and along his jawline.

"Mm, let's go upstairs," John said to the sensitive space between Sherlock's ear and jaw.

Sherlock seemed to melt for a minute, although that could just have been the soft heat of his skin filling John's hands. "No," Sherlock said, growled really, before shoving John against the nearest wall.

John mostly escaped the picture frame that clanged to the floor, but anyway he had little time to dwell on any impending bruises because Sherlock had pressed him into the wall as hard as he pressed his mouth against John's in a demanding kiss. John's neck hurt from angling back and his skull hurt from the wall and his arms hurt from Sherlock's biting fingernails. All of it made the supple generosity of his mouth all the more entrancing.

It was abundantly clear that Sherlock wasn't wearing anything underneath that bathrobe, especially now that he wasn't letting John touch him. John's eyes closed at the persistence of Sherlock's kiss, at his tongue tasting every available surface in John's mouth like it was a challenge to do so, and John couldn't see it but God could he ever feel the heat of Sherlock's naked body, and especially the erection grinding against John's hip. 

Sherlock's mouth abandoned John's, apparently satisfied once he'd got John moaning in frustration, and his nibbling kisses meandered down John's body, first through John's shirt and then on skin after Sherlock pushed the hem up for better access.

Sherlock's mouth kept descending until he landed audibly on his knees. He wasted no time licking down John's chest and into his bellybutton in a manner that made John squirm and clutch at his shoulders. He looked up at John, and his eyes were unguarded and insanely blue, either because of the shade of his robe or lust but hopefully both.

John made an involuntary sound suspiciously like a whimper and Sherlock looked smug as hell as he unbuttoned John's jeans. It would've been nice to take it slow this time, but then again Sherlock was pulling John's cock out and licking lasciviously up the underside before twining his tongue around the tip and why the fuck was John complaining again?

" _Shit,_ " John gritted out, trying not to lose it right then and there, and goddammit Sherlock glancing up at him occasionally as he took John's cock ever deeper wasn't helping. Where had Sherlock learned to do that? Maybe it was better not to know, but John sure was grateful about now.

"John," Sherlock said, and his voice was wonderfully muffled by John's cock slipping in and out of his mouth. "Watch."

"Oh God, I – "

"John."

John drew in a shaky breath and watched as Sherlock locked eyes with him, then took John deep and swallowed and it was all John could do not to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's wild hair and hold him down. He twisted the slippery material of Sherlock's robe up in his hands instead.

As if sensing John's every lewd thought Sherlock pulled off to say, "Fuck my mouth," and when John just stood there paralyzed with lust he rolled his eyes and added, "Hold my head still and do it, John."

"I. I – "

" _John._ "

John dragged his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, traced his gorgeous flushed face, sliced his fingers into his hair. Sherlock strained forward to run his tongue under the head of John's cock teasingly until John groaned and sunk back into the heat of his mouth.

John thrusted shallowly at first, but then Sherlock incorporated his tongue at random and John had to go deeper just to see what he might do. He found an effective rhythm, with Sherlock not so much sucking as making sure John met with resistance with his obscenely wet lips, swirling his tongue and his eyes kept threatening to shut every time John plunged back in but focused obsessively on him the whole time.

John was close before long, of course he was, and Sherlock shifting suddenly to wrap a hand around his own cock and pump it in time with John's thrusts cinched it. Sherlock moaned, which felt fantastic, and John couldn't decide whether to watch his cock disappearing between Sherlock's lips or Sherlock's shameless self-pleasuring while he took it just so fucking effortlessly.

John came, breathless and shaking with Sherlock's hair knotted hopelessly between his fingers, and Sherlock kept sucking softly until John was spent, then collapsed to the side. John's vision pulsed dizzily but through the haze he watched Sherlock jerking his own cock with abandon, brows knit in concentration and his robe hanging off one shoulder but still sticking to his sweaty skin here and there.

"Let me take care of that for you," John said hoarsely, and joined him on the floor, which was much more uncomfortable and much less sensual than John had anticipated, but there was a job to be done, dammit. John tucked himself back into his jeans carelessly, then climbed over to Sherlock with heavy limbs and kissed him. Sherlock fisted his hands in John's shirt, kissed back, fell back and pulled John along with him.

John laughed. "You oka – oh, okay." Sherlock had seized John's wrist and forced it down between his legs. John took the hint, wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock went to work. This was like the graveyard, a bit, except that it was insanely better.

"God, look at you," John breathed. "You're fucking leaking everywhere." He sucked at Sherlock's neck because of how it strained back, licked into his mouth because of how it had fallen open in delight.

"John, I want you to – mmf."

John stopped kissing him after a heated moment and said, "No, that's cheating. Let me figure out what you want."

"Practicing your deductive reasoning?"

"Oh, yeah." John moved his hand a little faster, and Sherlock's eyes widened very slightly. "And I'm gonna need a lot of practice, I can tell."

"Yes, well." Sherlock was trying so hard to be cool, but he was panting more than speaking. "Practice makes perfect."

"You are perfect," John told him, burying his face in Sherlock's neck for a minute just to inhale his scent. Sherlock's hips kept straining up impatiently and John wasn't interested in teasing him right now – he increased the pressure, wanted feverishly to have Sherlock as breathless as he made John all the time. 

Sherlock clutched at John's arms, which were trembling with the effort of keeping himself propped up over Sherlock as he writhed around on the floor, and as drained as he was John suddenly wanted to fuck Sherlock like this, where he could see every fleeting feeling cross Sherlock's usually stoic face, see Sherlock's hair jostling as John thrust into him and see Sherlock's eyes and mouth pleading for more. 

Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightened and faltered and he spilled shudderingly into John's hand, all over his stomach, and a little bit on his bathrobe. John kissed him through it, and Sherlock responded with enthusiasm before going slack jawed and listless beneath him. 

As nice as it was, John's knees were starting to protest. "Sherlock. We gotta move."

Sherlock grumbled, but he sat up and let John steer him to a clutter-clogged couch anyway. They leaned against each other while their breathing slowed, and Sherlock's fingertips traced vaguely over whatever part of John they could reach.

*******

The sun was sinking behind the hills by the time they finally roused themselves, and that halfhearted snow had finally stopped coming down, leaving a light dusting on the grass that would either freeze overnight or melt away on a sunny day down the road.

Sherlock paced through the living room, fully dressed this time and playing his fiddle – a real one, which looked nearly as hellish as the bone fiddle but sounded heavenly. John spent the better part of an hour calling up various personnel at WVU, most of them notably displeased with him for making them work so close to the holiday. He did find out a fair amount about Jamie's classes, but not before enduring an army of cranky office workers. John wondered how he'd gotten roped into this in the first place. Those plural orgasms over the last 24 hours had probably had something to do with it.

"Well," John said, hanging up the phone and handing Sherlock the notepad he'd been scribbling on. "Here you go. Need me to find out how frequently she went to the bathroom or skipped class or anything else that's completely random, while I'm at it?"

"Did you get last year's schedule, too?" Sherlock faced away from him, still fiddling haphazardly.

"Yes. Though, again, I don't know why you'd need it."

Sherlock put his fiddle down and snatched the notepad from John, scanning obsessively. "Ah!" he said after a minute, then put the notepad down and beamed at John. "Professor Moriarty."

John waited.

"He's on the Easton-Bolan Coal Miners board of trustees. That's how Jamie must've gotten involved . . ."

"How do you know that? About the professor being on the board."

"They've been courting me for awhile, now. I'm quite familiar with their upper management."

"Clearly."

"Jamie took Advanced Algebra freshman year with this professor, and a low level math course the next year because he was teaching it. He must have put her in touch with the coal company or recommended her, and they must have offered that internship Elise said she was working so hard for – a ticket out of Stanger. Hard to say who came up with the idea to go on a murderous rampage, though I have to say if it wasn't Jamie herself, she sure was thinking about it. Huh. Almost flawless."

Sherlock picked up his fiddle again, played a cheery little tune and seemed quite content to bask in the glow of his own cleverness. He faced the window instead of John.

John felt awkwardness settling in. "Well. I should probably get home." He couldn't really think clearly, in Sherlock's presence. It would probably be a good idea to mull over everything that was happening between them at a safer distance.

Sherlock's melody didn't falter at all as he replied: "Yes, go home and get your things, there's a lot of closet space here."

"Um . . . "

"You know you're going to live with me now, of course."

" . . . "

"Oh please," Sherlock snorted, deigning to turn and face him. "Winter is coming. You don't want to be cooped up in that terrible excuse for a trailer over these next months, and it will be far more convenient for you to stay here."

"I – "

It was very hard not to just say yes when Sherlock looked so confident about the whole thing, but on the other hand it was quite satisfying to watch a smidge of doubt cloud up Sherlock's eyes when John laughed and said, "Listen, I've gotta go," and bolted for the door.

Sherlock, for once, followed after John. But both of them stopped short on the porch at the sight of someone walking up to the house through the deepening dusk.

Sherlock frowned as the shadowy figure materialized into a person. "Lestrade."

"Well hey there, Honeydripper," said Lestrade. "Get your beauty rest? Good! Now let's get you boys down to the station an' take your statements."

"You find the body?" Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, putting him in John's personal space. "Jamie Rowe's, I mean." 

"Yeah. Well, what was left of it. Got all tore up on its way down that mining shaft."

"I can imagine," Sherlock said, while John tried not to. "Find anything else?"

"Some mighty suspicious blood in the back of Tanner's truck. All that's in processing now."

"Know about Easton-Bolan yet?"

Lestrade frowned. "I know _of_ them . . . "

Sherlock grinned. "We'll have lots to talk about then."

"Well I'm downright titillated," Lestrade said tonelessly. "Let's go."

"Hm." Sherlock looked sidelong at John. " _Right_ now?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Why? What are you two so busy doin' you can't come with me?" He was laughing, but it made John helplessly jittery anyway.

"Oh you know," John blurted. "It's just I don't have what you'd call actual plumbing down at the trailer, and you know, it was just more convenient to come up here, and it's . . . tell you what, Sherlock was _really_ tired. Traumatic stuff. Had to get him straight on home."

"Yes, John looked after me very, very well." He slapped John on the back but let his hand linger a bit. "I'm trying to get him to stay on and look after me full time, actually. You and Mrs. Hudson should be pleased," he added with a sneer.

Lestrade laughed again. "That so, Dr. Watson? Lord knows it's better'n that creaky old trailer accommodation wise, and Sherlock sure has got the room."

John kept blinking. At what point in their sparring match had Sherlock enlisted Lestrade?

"Of course the indoor toilet is one of this house's key selling points," Sherlock said proudly. "Tell him, Sheriff."

"You got a toilet, it's true. When you haven't blown it up lately, that is."

"I have only exploded my toilet _once_."

"Pretty sure I recall gettin' called out here for it twice. Still don't know how you managed to set it on fire."

"I didn't do it. " Sherlock was indignant. " _That_ was a crude attempt on my life. By _someone else_."

"Okay!" John said over them. "Let's take it down a notch there, gentlemen." 

Lestrade nodded to John before addressing Sherlock again. "See you know I like this, havin' the good doctor around as a referee for you."

"John is not my referee."

"'Course he ain't," Lestrade smiled. "Now come on, there's business needs taken care of, still."

Sherlock gave a put upon sigh and ducked inside to grab his coat and scarf before the three of them crunched across the lawn to Lestrade's car.

"So," Lestrade said. "I hear Mrs. Hudson invited you down to hers for Thanksgiving, and I gotta tell you, it's my sacred duty to make sure you show up. You'll break her poor heart, if you don't."

"Of course I'm _going_ ," Sherlock snapped.

"Just wasn't sure you'd be inclined to eatin' in the middle of a case like this, is all. You noticed that yet, John?"

John bit his tongue, but a couple of giggles escaped anyway.

Sherlock couldn't seem to decide who to glare at. 

Lestrade held open the car door for them. "Well, then. Maybe you can keep on him about havin' a decent diet, too."

"I'll keep on him," John promised, and Sherlock snickered way too loudly at his side.


	12. Excerpts from the Journals of Jamie Rowe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The frailty of genius is it needs an audience. The late Jamie Rowe gets one posthumously.

**Excerpts from the Journals of Jamie Rowe**

**(as found in a backpack in a pickup truck by an abandoned mine site)**

 

_**[As found a second time in the dumpster outside the sheriff's office. While you could hardly have been expected to know this wasn't just mathematics schoolwork far beyond your educational level, you should at least have asked someone with more experience in codes and ciphers to take a look before tossing valuable evidence out with your barbecue wrappers and Skoal cans. I'll be sending you a dry-cleaning bill shortly. --SH]** _

__October 1972, Morgantown __

_What I want to learn – what I don't already know – is the science of ruthlessness. The systematic elimination of inhibitions._

_Looking at it broadly, what reason is there to not kill. None that really holds up when you look at them the right way._

_Now, sometimes there's no reason to do it either, but then you have to be ready when the time does come along and getting rid of those inhibitions might take longer than I think._

_So..._

_Amazing what you can find out, doing a work-study job in a professor's office. The things he just leaves around. The letters he didn't shred enough. The bills and invoices – and sometimes the payments. From all over the place. Never seen a postage stamp from a lot of those countries before. He can be really careless, how strange._

_Sometimes I think it's just that I'm so far beneath his notice. Office girl, doing the typing, making coffee._

_But then sometimes in his class, he calls on me, and I've got that equation from my notes and I don't get it wrong, and I know how I got there, and then I think sometimes he sees me. I mean really sees me. Through my face, to what's underneath. The first time it happened, I got scared. But I took that feeling apart, and I saw there wasn't anything to it. The second time, I was excited. That didn't mean anything either._

_And then I didn't think I was being so clever and sneaky anymore. I started to think he wanted me to find those things._

_And that's exciting for a reason. There is potential in me. There is. If eyes as cold as his can see it, it's not wishful thinking. It's there._

_I can go places. I can be somebody else, who doesn't have these cheap clothes and a stupid hick accent. Someone with real places to be. I can travel and I can know secrets and I can have power. I can know what power is. It's not in politics._

_I'm going to start with my backward shitstain of a hometown, where the people just let themselves get beaten and robbed for years and years on end and then say it's because there wasn't enough faith in Jesus. Hell, it's fine with me if they blow the whole county up for the coal, and every last one of those stupid pigs with it._

_LET his company have it all. Oh yes, I know. They want it, and why shouldn't they have it? The people sitting on it aren't doing anything but praying and waiting to die._

_It won't happen overnight, but it will happen. Seems like a good place for me to start – this is where I started. Fear is a good start, and it'll be easy._

__November 1972, Stanger __

_Home for break. H.H. is pissing me off. She never liked that whiny hillbilly music before but now she keeps putting that shit on the radio all the time. Fucking fiddle gets on my nerves the worst – it's just people who're too stupid to play the violin right._

_\---_

_Saw R.E. in the store today. She was trying to cozy up to me. I pretended I didn't remember her too well. I do, though. First girl in our class to get married, at the end of 9th grade. Rumors said she was pregnant and lost the baby. Talking about dooming yourself to never be anything in life, ever. Four years on, and she still thinks that cheap Woolworth's makeup covers up the black eyes and bruises. Everybody says her man is going to kill her one of these days. Well, maybe somebody will. Maybe not him. But who'd suspect anyone else? I wonder how much of a fight she'd put up. I wonder how much of a fight she will put up._

_\---_

_T.G. came by again. Sniffing around me like a dog. I'm not in heat for him, sorry. But there's something about him. Something kind of wild and mean and vengeful. He's also very stupid. That could be a useful combination._

_\---  
People are so sentimental about those cheesy old songs. R.E. came by asking for money. Husband's been drinking it all. I wonder what he's drinking. What is “burglar's wine,” anyway? I'll find out._

_\---_

_Deed done. It was hard physical work. At least that song didn't make it seem too easy. Had to burn favorite coat; too much blood. T.G. really liked doing it. I'm not going to say too much, but he's kind of disgusting. Oh well._

__December 1972, Morgantown __

_Well shit. I'm only doing well in one course._

__December 1972, Stanger __

_Skin color is a stupid motive, T.G. So is rejection. So is the fact that S.A. has a boyfriend who is both white and not you. Nonetheless, it has an appeal – it's a song. And she's an outsider. Could certainly put a damper on Stanger's hopes of a tourist industry, ha ha. I wonder what was the point of doing one that no one will probably even try to investigate. Still, it's practice, and there are new methods to investigate. How much force is required relative to the size of the rock?_

_Back off, T. This one is mine. Simple physics – there is no reason I would not be strong enough, because brute force is not what matters most._

__March 1973, Morgantown __

_That one class wasn't good enough in fall and the second one isn't good enough now. Yes, it's the only one that holds my attention – it's numbers, it's patterns, it's him – but I'm risking falling back into the crab bucket, and that is the one thing that must not happen. I CANNOT flunk out and go back there with my tail between my legs. This foothold is everything right now._

_There was a newspaper from Beckley on his desk this morning, an article about the latest Arthel murder peering up just below the fold. I didn't put it there. I just made coffee._

__April 1973, Stanger __

_I didn't need T.G. at all this time. Old K.M. has always been nuts – went to vacation Bible school once and she was a teacher there, so fanatically insistent. Told me I was going to Hell. Well, she went like a lamb to the slaughter, and I'm pretty sure that's Christian symbolism in itself. She's old-school Holiness. She believes in “signs followin,'” faith healing and snakes and speaking in tongues, but by their doctrine she shouldn't believe in prayers for the dead – they shouldn't need 'em anymore, right? Except where her dead are concerned. _

_A lot of women are weeping and wailing over their dead boyfriends from the war right now – but K.M.'s man was killed in World War Fucking Two, and she carries on like she just got the letter this morning. So I said I'd go with her and pray with her. Pray they'd be reunited. And then I made that happen. I was God for about two and a half minutes of hard pressure with a rope._

_Okay, so the grave was her fiancé, not her piece on the side like in the song. Nobody's perfect. She did look pretty perfect in that veil I put on her after I strangled her, though. That was easier than it should have been. It was almost as if she didn't really mind._

_Good graveyard, though. Old. Bet her boy was just about the last person buried there, in the 40s. I'll keep it in mind._

__May 1973, Morgantown __

_Academic probation. Probably the best I could have hoped for, and only because he wrote me a recommendation. It was a good letter and he wrote it himself. I know because I traced it off the carbon from his typewriter, and of course he wouldn't have me type it. I have to do better. I have to work harder. I can come back in the fall. That's what matters. Hang onto that._

__June 1973, Stanger __

_J.B. was personal for T.G. He'd been gunning for her for a long time. Pathetic. So she didn't want to fuck him anymore. Can't blame her for that, too bad it took her so long. She only stopped because she thought it would look bad for her job as a teacher if it came out, cause she was married. True, but so what? He took it as an insult, though, and he's dumb enough to think insults actually matter._

_He's still sulking because I was the one who shot her. Thinks it should have been him. He got to hack up her body pretty good afterward, though, so he should be happy with that. Better than nothing._

__August 1973, Stanger __

_I get to go back in two weeks. I get to go back in two weeks. That's all I can think about. All I want to think about. But I know when I get there, I have to do better, and when I think about that, I cannot sleep._

_H.H. still playing her godawful music, and now she's got an acoustic guitar and she's torturing the strings like she's a retarded Joan Baez and wanting me to hang out and talk about the same bullshit we did when we were kids._

_God, she's boring. Making eyes all the time at M.M., who does nothing but make and play musical instruments. She hangs out at his shop all day and tries to drag me along. I bet I could make a fiddle out of old bones like in that song, just from watching him for 10 minutes, and they try to tell me it's a lifetime to master. Ugh._

_I have to do better. I haven't been working hard enough._

_\---_

_T.M. just kind of presented himself over a couple days, acting like he knew me and missed me. I actually had something like I guess a crush on him back in elementary school, believe it or not. He used to have a mind in there._

_Had to go big with this one. Real big. Hell, we even hotwired another truck for the job. The song said horses, but that was from hundreds of years ago. Let's use what we have now._

_I thought about doing some fake-rape scene like in the song, just to get T.G. riled up enough to do it hard, but there wouldn't have been any point to that. T.G. hates hippies plenty as it is. (It's T.M.'s aunt's land, though. That's enough of a connection.)_

_T.M. knew all about magic mushrooms, and he didn't care that you find them in cow shit, he'd eat them and make tea from them anyway. That's what he was doing in the field where we caught him._

_I guess being torn apart with your limbs chained to trucks must be an awful way to go – and he was tripping hard. Did he even know that the pain and the death was real?_

__October 1973, Morgantown __

_Not flunked out yet. Still doing well in his field, oh yes. Managed to rank up a good grade in a Mickey Mouse creative writing class. Cleaned up my act, wore dresses more often, smiled a little more. Got my typing speed up higher. I am a splendid example of a co-ed from the coalfields, look at me._

_Another Beckley paper on my professor's desk, this time speculating on connections between the killings._

_Someone else is watching._

__November 1973, Stanger __

_Thanksgiving is a shitty holiday. I don't like turkey much, don't like my family, don't like my town, and don't want to leave Morgantown. But I'm here, SO._

_I know who is watching me. I know who's on my trail. At least, for a value of “know” that makes it statistically unlikely (though not impossible) that I'm wrong. I also know he's looking in the wrong direction right now. It would be fun to catch his eye and see what happens, though._

_H.H., I really, REALLY wanted you to stop with the hillbilly music, and the stupid stories and the superstitions. It's as if you think this place, this inbred mess of a “culture” is something to be proud of. It wasn't like this when we were kids. You wanted to get out of here as badly as I did. Once._

_H, I need to reel in my biggest fish, and I really wish there was some bait that was less perfect than you. But I can't settle for less than perfect bait, can I? It's important. I have to get out. You don't care about getting out as much as I do, so...what then, for you? Sitting on your ass here? That's no life._

_H, let's go up to the tire swing! I know it's too cold to go swimming, but we can still hike up there and talk for a while._

_**[different level of mathematical coding] the man on my trail is a fiddler; over by Mt Musgrave, late in the night. It's got to be that weird hermit S.H. But for now? I should be sorry. It has to be H and it has to be this song. H's sister E is a nutcase; the pattern should then become clear. [ end different code]** _

_H, I wish I could say I was sorry and be honest about it. I know I should be. But I just don't feel it. I'm not even sorry about the blame on your poor crazy sister, if anyone's smart enough to catch the song clues yet._

_\---_

_T.G. was being a pain in the ass again about taking H's body apart. There are REASONS why I want certain bones removed. It is NOT my fault he's too stupid to understand. They're not fucking trophies. My trophy work is already done._

_\---_

_Oh, the breadcrumb trail seems to be working. So yes, S.H. is the next one for sure, and the most challenging quarry yet. He'll be the only one who comes to meet me with eyes wide open. I need to play at higher levels. They say that in chess and tennis, right? You only get better by playing opponents who might be better than you?_

_On one level; easy if I can just get it done – who will miss him? And it looks like he's pretty prone to getting lured, just lay out shiny clues and he'll come, like a crow._

_I've planted clues. He's seen them and I know it, and he hasn't even told anyone. Yet. As far as I can tell._

_On another level? Not easy. Can't underestimate him. What's the lure? I know the way the song should play out: I invite him to fuck me, he says no, and I gut him with a knife out of jealous rage. That's how the song goes. **[Different level of coding: I'm pretty sure he's a fag, so I think his 'no' is assured. What if he said yes, though, because I've had sex and I've killed, but I've never done both at once.]** I bet he'll know what's coming, he'll bring backup, and so will I._

_I think it'll be a great night. I really, really want to kill him. I actually feel that strongly, which is rare. I think that's because I can't count on the outcome. I have no idea what will happen._

_This time is the one that's most likely to end up with me being the one dead. Of course I hope not, but I'd rather die now than lose everything I've worked for – or live in this town until old age._

_Also, T.G., fuck off. You've contributed no ideas whatsoever to this operation._


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they lived hillbilly ever after! John makes up his mind, and Sherlock and Lestrade show off some teamwork.

Thanksgiving hadn't begun all that promisingly for John, for all that he'd woken up in Sherlock's bed again (only mildly frustrated after His Geniusness had succumbed to post-case crash the night before, open-mouthed on John's chest with his hand between John's legs, dead to the world). First off, the Royal Presence had stormed back into the house covered in hay, trailing horse manure on his right shoe, and muttering something about a glue factory, leaving John to deduce that he'd probably been nearly kicked through the fence.

Second, Sherlock hadn't taken well to his attempts to leave again. "But we have to go to dinner at Mrs. Hudson's."

"We _will,_ but do we have to show up together?"

"Why not?"

"Because . . . " John said, flailing a bit. "Because she's really nosy. And pretty smart. Not like you, but she can put two and two together . . . "

"Oh," Sherlock said with his best you-poor-idiot sigh. "Ridiculous paranoia. You think that if we arrive together, she'll immediately assume we have a sexual relationship."

"Well, we _do!_ " John shouted, and then realized what he'd just said. Of course yes, the sexual part was just a plain old fact, but a relationship? Well. Of course they did. All sorts of people with all sorts of connections have _relationships_ , but . . . Not a good line of thought right now. Very untimely.

"Yes, and it's making you self-conscious. You think there's a neon sign over our heads now. Therefore, you'll try to distance yourself, and you'll go overboard, and that will make it even more obvious to the discerning eye."

"That's . . . not helpful. Not helpful at all."

"I wasn't trying to be _helpful,"_ Sherlock said. "I'm pointing out what should be clear even to you. If Mrs. Hudson is the reason you're worried about living with me, that's irrational even by _your_ standards."

"Has it occurred to you _at all_ that there might be a whole lot of reasons?"

"None that stand up to intelligent scrutiny. You really should learn to leave that to me."

"Here's one: you're an arrogant, insulting nasty piece of work." John held up his index finger warningly. "Don't talk. Don't say another word. I'll see you at dinner. Behave, or . . . "

"Or what?"

"Or I'll . . . never give you a blowjob again."

Nothing contributes to a tense moment like an obviously completely empty threat. John threw up his hands and walked out of Sherlock's house without pausing for the derisive smirk.

John even started to feel a twinge in his leg as he started down the steep road that was slightly slick with a dusting of wet snow. Fog shrouded the highest points of the ridge above and was starting to creep down into the valley. Still, by the time he passed Mrs. Hudson's house, there was something about its native cheer that started to dissolve the cloud of John's mood. 

He looked at his own trailer with something that was no longer complete hatred. Gradually, he realized that was because it wasn't his prison anymore. He would put up a fight, he'd raise some more arguments, he'd resist being taken for granted, he'd keep a lot of his things here still, he'd slink down here sometimes to keep up appearances, and maintain the trailer and keep it from melting into the weeds completely, and maybe sometimes to get away from that crazy bastard for a while. 

But he was also, eventually, inevitably, going to take everything important back up that hill. John was going to leave this neat, organized, constricted, tiny little place and move into a big house full of unpredictable clutter. He was going to wind up sharing everything with Sherlock Holmes – his house, his work, his bed, and his madness. It wasn't a very safe or sensible choice. But it was the right one. It was the one John wouldn't regret on his deathbed – well, if he were lucky enough to get to die in a bed, anyway.

No reason to make it too easy for Sherlock too soon, though.

It was early afternoon, which meant plenty of time to get to the stores even if they were hellishly crowded and maybe get back in time to catch a little football. Humming to himself, he rummaged around on the kitchen table and found the slip of paper where he'd written Mrs. Hudson's number. 

Definitely a good day, because he got through on the first try. "Hello Mrs. Hudson, it's John."

"Oh _hello_ John. You better _not_ be tellin' me you're not coming for supper."

"No, nope, not sayin' that at all. Just wondering what you wanted me to bring."

"Your company and that's all. I don't need a thing."

"I'm not havin' that. What do you want? Do you like wine?"

"I have some, and I'm mullin' it right now."

John sighed. "You need any help with anything?"

"Don't think I do, but you can come on over any time."

"An hour or two?"

"That'd be great."

John wasn't in a mood to take no for an answer, so he went out and got in his truck and drove to the local packette anyway. The crowds weren't too bad, and to his great relief, no conversations stopped dead when he walked in, and he even got a friendly wave or two. The wine he bought was nothing special, but he'd seen a tin of Tuberose snuff on Mrs. Hudson's counter so he picked up one of those too, and, on generous impulse, a pack of the cigarettes he knew Sherlock favored.

Nobody commented. Nobody'd even notice – he _was_ being ridiculous, and he was kind of enjoying that revelation.

He took the slow route back, stopped to pluck what must be the last maple branch in the county that still had pretty leaves, listening to the WVU game on the radio. 

He shouldn't be in such a good mood, but he wasn't going to question it too hard.

Still, it didn't stop him from doing a horrified double-take, reeling and blinking, when he knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

It wasn't she who answered. It was Sherlock, with a butcher's knife in his hand, wearing an apron covered in blood. God, the blood was everywhere – his hands up to the elbows where his sleeves were rolled up, a smear of it across his cheek and nose where he must have wiped his face.

John had seen him spattered with blood before, and he froze for a moment at the memory.

"Oh, there you are, John," came Mrs. Hudson's cheerful call from deep in the kitchen. Sherlock was chuckling at the look on John's face.

"I still think you're creepy," John muttered to him.

"You also think I'm sexy, so what does that say about you?" Sherlock muttered back, smiling.

"Mrs. Turner's boy brought us a fresh haunch of venison," Mrs. Hudson said. "Sherlock's so very good with knives."

John purposefully turned his back on Sherlock and walked into the kitchen, where he was nearly brought to his knees by the scents of heaven. A roasting wild turkey, with stuffing and gravy. Cornbread and greens and mashed potatoes and formerly-bloody bits of venison cooking with vegetables in a stew pot. Wine mulling with spices on the stovetop, and a pumpkin pie cooling beside it.

"How many people are you expecting?" he asked.

"Oh, I think it might be just us this year," Mrs. Hudson said. "My sister's taken most of her clan to her daughter in Cincinnati."

"That's a lot of food for three people," John gulped. "Not that I'm complainin,' mind you."

"That's food for three people for two weeks," she said. "You boys are goin' home with full stomachs and a whole lotta leftovers." Using the metaphorical eyes in the back of her head, she said, "Sherlock, you ain't touchin' nothin' in here til you go wash up. You look like Jack the Ripper, I swear."

Sherlock gave her no guff at all, but stalked off into her bathroom. At the sound of the sink running, John was absolutely helpless to resist inspiration: would Sherlock like being ambushed in the shower one of these days? He thought of thick dark curls heavy and wet, of streams of hot water running down a long, lean spine, skin slick with soapsuds . . . he remembered that morning at the Greenbrier, when now he knew that he _could_ have yanked off that towel, and then . . . 

_Oh God. Not now._ What was this sorcery of Sherlock's, that brought John's libido back to its seventeen-year-old levels?

"Well, I think it's just about time to set to it, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock emerged, the edges of his hair slightly damp. As she took her turn washing up, Sherlock nudged John over to look at her wall of family photographs.

"See these here?" he asked, his voice low in John's ear. "That's her favorite nephew, Ernest. He's a dancer in an avant-garde ballet troupe, and he lives in Greenwich Village. She's been to visit him twice."

Sure enough, there were quite a few photos of flamboyantly handsome young men, and Mrs. Hudson was in some of them, dressed to the nines and smiling radiantly.

"She was the toast of the town," Sherlock said. "Clearly Ernest is well-connected."

John peered closer at a man standing next to Mrs. Hudson in one of the party photos. "That guy looks a lot like Andy Warhol."

"That's who it is."

"Oh. So she . . . "

"Understands." Sherlock said. "And she knows me well. She called me in when her husband was on Death Row."

"You prevented his execution."

"No, I ensured it."

John's eyes widened.

Sherlock just laughed and leaned in lower. "She's got my back. Though not in the same way you do."

"I'd hope not."

Overall, John thought it was just about the best Thanksgiving dinner he'd ever had. The food was spectacularly satisfying, and even the moment when Mrs. Hudson insisted on joining hands and saying grace wasn't awkward, since Sherlock behaved himself.

The biggest surprise John encountered was the way Sherlock could eat when he was of a mind to. My God, could he put it away. "You got a hollow leg?" John said fondly as Sherlock chased the last smears of gravy around his plate with his third buttermilk biscuit.

"Save room for the pie, dear," Mrs. Hudson said with pride.

"How'd you get him to do that?" John asked.

"It's a matter of timing," Sherlock said with his mouth full.

"Elbows off the table, honey, that turkey ain't gonna run away from you."

Just as they were angling to get just a little more dessert into those last few precious bits of stomach space, Mrs. Hudson's phone rang. "Pardon me," she said as she went to answer it. "I have a hunch."

John could only hear one side of the phone conversation, of course, but it being Mrs. Hudson, that might well be enough.

"Oh goodness yes, do come over, we'd love to have you!"

Pause. She mouthed his name at the other guests. _Lestrade._

"I am so sorry to hear that. I know it's been a rough time. You deserve better, if you ask me. And I know you didn't ask, but I'm gonna keep tellin' you anyway."

Pause.

"Oh, yes, _please_ bring Betsy. Sherlock's brought his little friend as well."

"Hey!" John blurted indignantly and was treated to two indulgent smiles. John thought it was highly inappropriate, especially from Sherlock.

But when Lestrade arrived, all came clear. He wasn't a different man out of uniform, not exactly, but if he'd had any lingering animosity over Sherlock's insults, it all seemed to be gone now. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, I do appreciate your hospitality." 

"You need a little refuge."

Lestrade nodded. "Got some stuff out in the car, I'll be right back."

Sherlock leaned over to whisper in John's ear. "His marriage is on the rocks – wife is cheating, everyone knows it. He had to spend Thanksgiving dinner there as a formality and for the sake of the children, but it couldn't have been pleasant."

John looked at the door sadly and bolted up to help, following the sheriff out. "Your leg's lookin' a lot better, John," Lestrade said at the car.

"Hardly feel it at all now."

"I guess the excitement's good for you. Look, I gotta tell you somethin'. I've seen Sherlock smile more in the past week than in the whole last year."

John blinked and turned away to pick up a tray of leftovers. "Well, it _was_ a good case. I know he likes serial killers."

"Yeah, maybe that's it," Lestrade said doubtfully, picking up the rest of the stuff, bringing in a large, heavy box and actually trusting John with his baby in her solid, well-made case. Because Betsy turned out to be not a woman, but a banjo; Sherlock greeted her by name.

John poked him and whispered. "You can't ever remember Lestrade's first name, but you know the name of his banjo?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "Priorities."

And of course by Sherlock's "little friend," Mrs. Hudson had meant his fiddle.

Lestrade unpacked his heavy crate, and three faces looked at him in various levels of shock (John) and amusement (Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock).

"I cain't help it," Lestrade sighed as the unpacked the Mason jars and glass jugs full of a clear liquid that still managed to look dangerous despite its superficial resemblance to water. "It's the only thing that my brothers ever bring to dinner. _All three of them._ Every year – and they damn well know I can't keep it in the house."

"Well, I do appreciate it," Mrs. Hudson says. "You know I use a lot of it in my herbal tinctures."

Lestrade presented a glass jug to John. "Welcome home, sir. I reckon you mighta missed the taste of _this_ over there. Though I figure every country on earth has some kind of their own, don't they?"

"Well, I can't say I missed the _taste_ exactly."

"I'm not supposed to say this, but my brothers are good at it."

It was with a little trepidation that Lestrade set a jug down on the end table beside Sherlock. "Here we go. Fiddler's dram. But you gotta promise me – you're not gonna use it to set fires, or blow anything up, or mix any acids or poisons in it, or put it in any engines."

Sherlock looked at it dubiously. "What am I supposed to do with it, then?"

"I suggest you drink it, you big fool. Might loosen you up some."

"Well," Sherlock said. "I've been told recently that I _am_ very tight, so . . . "

_JESUS,_ John thought and almost dropped his mug of hot cider before he remembered it was Mrs. Hudson's cup and he couldn't shatter it.

Lestrade looked like a penny might have dropped in his head, but he chose to catch it before it landed. Fortunately, tuning a banjo is a fussy and distracting bit of stage business, especially when a fiddler is giving you a cool, cat-eyed smirk and rosining up his bow with an unnecessarily suggestive motion. "It's always the graveyard tunin' with you, ain't it?"

"GDAE is tedious."

"Y'all just can't stand to have a banjo player have it easy."

"I'm so happy we're going to have a little music," Mrs. Hudson said. "I could put on the radio, but it's not the same as having you boys right here playin' it for us. John, do you play anything?"

"Clarinet in the marching band," John said sheepishly, sure that his face was still an appalling shade of red. "A little guitar, but I was never any good. I do like to dance, though."

"Well, that's a good thing," she said. "Because I've had my little herbal medicine and my hip's as good right now as it ever is."

"Is that a challenge, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

"You bet your bottom dollar it is."

Lestrade grinned. "You know 'Orange Blossom Special,' city slicker?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and with a long draw of the bow, made a scarily accurate train whistle noise. "The game is _on,_ Sheriff."

And then they were both on it at breakneck speed and pinpoint accuracy. John noticed just a couple of things in that moment: that Lestrade was really good; that Sherlock had the sound of a classically-trained violinist who was _really enjoying_ the droning grit and the driving rhythm of the mountain style, and sounding more natural in it by the moment; and that Mrs. Hudson had probably been the star of the dance floor when she was young, because she was a challenge for John to keep up with now. He could manage it, though, he really could. Their stomping feet matched the rhythm of the strings just right.

In between songs, John helped himself to a burning swig of Lestrade's brothers' contribution. Hot _damn,_ was it strong. He tried to keep his eyes from popping and his forehead from sweating and mostly succeeded, but he couldn't quite stop himself from cackling at Sherlock's expression when he tried some too.

"Yeah, drink some more o' that," Lestrade said, toasting Sherlock. "You still need to get a little more hillbilly in you."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't _need_ to say anything. His snicker said it for him – right to John, who managed to get out of Mrs. Hudson's face barely in the nick of time for his spit-take. Eventually, Sherlock drawled, "Ah s'pose you're right," with just a hint of the Appalachian twang he didn't really have. He took one more sip and didn't seem to react at to the burn at all.

"Fire On the Mountain," Lestrade called.

God, Mrs. Hudson was tireless, and she looked so girlishly happy. Even if John really had been shot in the leg – even if it had just happened an hour ago – he'd dance through all kinds of pain just to keep this going.

"Cacklin' Hen," Sherlock said.

One of those dance tunes that was sexier than its name sounded. At least when he and Lestrade paused to roll up sleeves, daub at sweat, and give each other competitive glares before plunging back into their seamless high-speed duet.

"Soldier's Joy." Was that choice a coincidence? John couldn't bring himself to care.

"Stay All Night." Probably not.

"Oh, honey," Mrs. Hudson gasped as she swung with John in a quick circle with their elbows linked, their feet still keeping up the hoedown beat. "I think this might be my last fast number for a while, I'm startin' to feel it."

"Quite all right, ma'am," John said, bowing to her as the song ended.

"Somethin' a little slower then," Lestrade said. "'Wildwood Flower'?"

"Rendered banal by overuse, but it still serves its purpose," Sherlock said by way of agreement. And he put a surprisingly sweet sway and sadness into the tune, wind singing through pines, grass tugging at legs, a bittersweet sort of tug and chime to his tone.

And as John danced a careful little two-step with his hand on Mrs. Hudson's waist, he was moving slowly enough to watch Sherlock over her shoulder; Sherlock was swaying a little to his own playing. John watched the mesmerizing sweep of the bow that was an extension of Sherlock's graceful arm, and looked at his hair overshadowing his eyes, the way the clamp of his chin held the fiddle against his shoulder, and his long fingers moving so delicate and smooth on the fiddle's tiny neck, and John couldn't help but think that in a couple hours, those hands might be playing _him_ with the same sensuous precision . . .

And then he had to start thinking of mangled corpses again, because the idea of getting a hard-on while slow dancing with Mrs. Hudson was something that could make even a hardened survivor with a lot to live for again think about eating a bullet.

It was late into the night when the combined effects of food and drink and sleepiness finally set in deep enough that it was time to break up the party. Even Sherlock looked relaxed and drowsy, and Mrs. Hudson was wobbling just a bit as she packed up trays of leftovers to go home, and John was moving awfully slowly as he helped her wash dishes.

"You've got a lot to carry, Sherlock," John said. "I got my truck here, you want a ride home?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said, looking up through his eyelashes. "I'd _love_ a ride." 

_Dammit,_ John thought. _He got me again._

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade waved as the truck backed out of the driveway and went up the hill. She nudged the sheriff gently. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson – quite a pair, aren't they?"

"Honeydripper and Porcupine," Lestrade chuckled. Then he turned to Mrs. Hudson, brow furrowed. "Do you think there's any chance John's drivin' back down that hill tonight? He seemed a little tipsy."

"Oh goodness no, honey, how could you miss _that?"_

Lestrade sighed. "I didn't miss it. I was just tryin' to mind my own business."

"And then you asked me," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.

"It's not like I _care._ As they say, as long as they don't frighten the horses."

As if on cue, from far up the hill, Arthur whinnied plaintively.

*******

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want a little more? Now featuring a bonus coda, set about a month later.
> 
> [Splat!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/628668)
> 
> Mind the warnings. It's totally porn.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Bone Fiddle (A Fanmix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/587851) by [singthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singthestars/pseuds/singthestars)
  * [The Bone Fiddle (A Fanmix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/587851) by [singthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singthestars/pseuds/singthestars)
  * [Splat!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/628668) by [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed)
  * [ART: favorite scene from The Bone Fiddle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3436850) by [kjanddean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjanddean/pseuds/kjanddean)
  * [Cover for the Bone Fiddle Series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727516) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)




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